Permanence
by petthekat
Summary: In this sequel to Epoch, a brooding Django Maximoff finds himself playing a reluctant role in his father's elaborate time-travelling schemes. Dropped into the world of scheming politicians, explosive battles, mind-controlling mutants and corporate corruption, Django has no choice but to set aside his feud with Pietro Maximoff and fight to avoid a real life Armageddon. [action/rom]
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I'm back everyone! Thanks for all the reviews, favs, follows and general love from Epoch. If you are reading this story and have NOT read Epoch, I recommend you do so for clarity! This is a sequel and it relies heavily on plot content from the original story.

Alright, here's what's up next. This story primarily follows Django Maximoff, Pietro and Kitty's eldest son, with occasional Pietro/Kitty POV's. Don't worry, though. They are both involved in the story. However, this is more about Django than anyone. Please note that the chapters will take much longer to come out for this story than Epoch, mostly because they will be much more plot heavy and complicated. Seriously, this story will have all the general nonsense and convoluted craziness of the comics. I'll be throwing a lot at you guys! So, you know. There's that.

Enjoy and, as always, thanks for reading.

* * *

><p><em>August 4, 1962<em>

"Papa, I'm hungry." It was a sunny afternoon.

Pietro raised an eyebrow and glanced around the large kitchen.

"So? Find something to eat."

Tiny Peter screwed up his face in a grimace. "Like what?" he cried desperately, as if his very existence depended on it. He turned around in a circle and fell to his knees, fingers gripped wildly at his face. "I'm staaaaaaaaaaaarving."

Pietro grabbed a box out of the cupboard and tossed it to him. "There, have at it." The little boy glanced at the box. "What is _this_?"

"It's cereal," Pietro said plaintively.

"Where's the milk?"

"In the neighbor's pasture. Now go." Pietro turned him in the direction of the door and prodded him through the archway. "And share with your sister!" he called after him. Peter shuffled out of the room, grumbling something about "_when Mama comes home_."

"Kids these days," Pietro muttered, going to take a sip of his coffee and then stopping when he heard the front door slam with a vicious thud. Pietro set down his coffee mug and stepped out of the kitchen into the foyer, his brows furrowed.

"Hey!" he called to the back of his eldest son. "What the hell are you slamming doors for?" Django Maximoff turned on his heel, his expression painfully dark for a twelve-year old.

Pietro beckoned at the door. "Well? What's going on?"

His son flushed red and looked away, his jaw clenched in a way that always reminded him of Kitty. "Nothing," he growled under his breath, turning to walk away again. Pietro stepped towards the stairs just once and cleared his throat. Django froze mid-step and glanced over his shoulder at his father.

"Get down here."

The boy turned, his shoulders tense and his lips tight. He moved down the few steps to the foyer again and stood in front of his father, his eyes shifted away. Django looked very much like Kitty, Pietro often thought, but the boy's eyes were the same steel grey as his own. Eyes he'd inherited years ago from Erik Lensherr and passed on to his son.

Right now they were cut to the side in glinting slits.

"Do not turn away from me when I'm talking to you," said the older man firmly. "Now what is wrong with you?"

Django exhaled, the sound vibrating in a near growl. He still seemed reluctant to talk, though, so Pietro grabbed him by the shoulder in an iron grip and directed him into the kitchen. He kicked out a chair and then all but shoved his son into it. He took a seat in front of him and waited. About ten seconds later, he gave up.

"I'm not known for my patience, son."

Django tossed up his arms. "Fine!" he snapped, dropping them into his lap. "You want to know what my problem is?" He leaned forward in his chair, his hands clenched.

"I wish I wasn't a _mutant_," he hissed.

Pietro stared. "What're you talking about?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about!" Django exclaimed, standing up and pacing around his chair. "I can't even hang out with my friends anymore because I'm always - always thinking in my head - " he touched his temple, his fingers trembling. For a moment, he closed his eyes tightly, as if to drown out his senses. "I keep feeling it ... in the back of my brain. Every time I'm near someone. I feel like it wants me to hurt people!"

Pietro leaned back in his chair. "You mean your powers?"

"Yes!" Django exploded. The heavy china cabinet nearby rocked just a bit. Pietro glanced at it for a split second before holding up both of his hands and then using them to drag Django into a seated position again. "Hey!" he exclaimed, holding his son still as he seethed. "Just calm down."

Django snorted and breathed in deeply, but the motion only made him tremble violently.

"Look," Pietro said in soothing tones. "It happens. Believe it or not, everyone feels this way at your age. Your body changes and you have to adjust." He scooted a little closer and kept his hands on Django's shoulders. "Your powers are a part of you. They're going to grow and adapt like anything else in life."

"That's easy for you to say," Django glared. "Your powers don't hurt people!"

Pietro's expression flickered. "Any power can hurt people if it's not controlled. That goes for mutants and non-mutants alike." He dropped his hands and let his arms rest on his knees. He smiled a little.

"Really, though. I know it feels like you're going through a lot and you aren't able to handle it, but _everyone _feels this way at your age."

"No, they don't," Django groaned into his hands. "They don't feel this way."

"They do," Pietro argued gently. "I felt that way. Your mother felt that way. We all did." Django shook his head still, his hands dropping and his face turning away. "How could I possibly know that? We don't even know any mutants outside of our family. All my friends are just regular people." He sucked in a shaky breath. "They don't get it."

"Maybe not," Pietro shrugged. "But they're dealing with their own things. I promise."

Django closed his eyes. "I would rather deal with anything else in the world than this," he whispered hoarsely. He touched his face again, his fingers curled. Pietro reached up and took Django's hands down. This time, he kept his own larger hands curled there at the boy's knees.

"What you're going through is perfectly normal."

His son suddenly stood and yanked his hands away. Pietro leaned back in his chair again, this time because his son's eyes had darkened to the color of coal.

"_Normal_?" he growled. "Nothing about me is normal! I'm a mutant!" The cabinet jumped against the wall and some china clattered inside.

Tears streamed down Django's face, even as Pietro stood and pushed the cabinet against the wall. "Django!" he snapped, turning to face him again. "Get in control of yourself!"

"No!" Django yelled, his once grey eyes now a pair of black orbs.

Pietro moved forward in a flash of speed and snatched Django by the shoulders. "_Stop it," _he ordered, his face close to Django's. For a moment, the room continued to rumble. Then, at Pietro's hissed command, it stopped.

Django blinked, his eyes returning to their normal shade. His body slumped in Pietro's grip. The only thing that remained was a streak of angry tears. Pietro watched his son's face crumple in a motion so like Kitty's, it burned away some of his anger. Django let his head fall forward and bow into Pietro's chest. Slowly, the older man dropped his hands and curled his arms around the boy's shoulders. "I'm sorry," Django murmured, his voice trembling. Pietro sighed deeply and touched Django's brunette hair.

"It's okay," he murmured to his son. "I told you. It happens."

He glanced down at him and brushed away some tears. "But you've got to accept it in order to learn how to control it. Right?" Django nodded, brushing at his heated cheeks. Boys his age weren't supposed to cry.

"Just keep living your life, Django, and your powers will grow with you. That's all you can do."

Pietro pressed his fingers through his son's hair and turned his head up to look at him. "And if you ever feel like you're at a point where you're not in control anymore, just come to us. We'll help you." He released his son and stepped away, watching as the boy weakly pushed his chair back under the table. His hand lingered, though, as if he was reluctant to support himself.

"I'll try," Django whispered. "But only because I have to."

Pietro frowned. "What do you mean?"

His son looked up, his fingers tightening on the chair. "I mean I'll deal with my powers because I have to. Not because I want to." His grey eyes hardened. "And if I could take them away and just be normal, I would."

Pietro felt a strange grief burn in his chest, but he pushed it away.

"Don't say that."

Django pushed away from the dining chair and moved to the doorway. "I mean it," he said over his shoulder, his voice flat. "I'd rather be normal than a mutant any day." He left through the archway without another word.

Pietro Maximoff sat heavily in the dining chair again, his coffee forgotten.

* * *

><p><em>December 8, 1972<em>

"Maximoff! I don't pay you to sleep over there!"

Something round and heavy bounced into Django's lap and made him lurch forward with an involuntary grunt. He realized rather belatedly that it was the _Idea Ball_. A painfully long moment passed before he realized that everyone at the table was staring him.

"I'm.. sorry," he said slowly. At the head of the table, his lead editor scowled.

"Damn it, Maximoff. Pay attention! I was asking who's got the front page?" the portly man leaned forward, his mustache twitching. "I don't suppose _you _have a decent story for once?"

Django's face colored red, but he cleared his throat and straightened. "Actually, I've been working on a piece about election rigging at the mayorial election - "

"Political corruption! Pah! That's old news." The man dismissed him with a wave, his attention immediately turning to a nervous young man with glasses. "Bakowski! Give me something news worthy!"

Django watched the poor man fluster and mutter for what felt like ages before his editor finally gave up and moved on. The meeting ended a few minutes later.

"Go do something useful!" was the last thing the crew heard before the door slammed behind them. Django rolled his eyes, but only after he got back to his desk and felt safe to do so. "Hey Maximoff," said Mulka from across the room. "Your phone's been ringing off the hook for the last hour."

Django raised a brow. "Really?" he asked, but no sooner had he reached for the phone than the ring trilled again. He picked it up immediately.

"_Kurier Lubelski_, this is Maximoff."

"Ooooh, so I have to call your _work _to get you on the phone now a days? For shame." Django groaned quietly, reaching up a hand and rubbing his face.

"Hello Rose," he said, his lips fighting a grin.

"Seriously!" the voice chirped at the other end. "I call your apartment like, a thousand times, no answer. I call this stupid newspaper and voila! There you are."

"It's called work for a reason," Django said distractedly, balancing the phone on one shoulder while his fingers shifted through some papers. "You should try it sometime." He chuckled quietly at his sister's dramatic sigh. "No thanks," she said, and he had a sneaking suspicion she was inspecting her perfectly manicured nails. "Anyway - _Peter, get that out of my room! - _ I was calling to see if maaaaaybe you were coming home for the holidays?"

Django cringed at Rose's mid-sentence shriek. To put off answering, he shuffled some more papers and straightened his desk. Rose's voice took on a more genuine tone.

"Please. You didn't come last year. It really upset Mama."

"I was busy," Django muttered. He frowned at the idea of his mother upset. He had avoided thinking about it as much as possible, but Rose's voice was conjuring up horrible images of a sniffling Kitty Maximoff.

"You only live two hours away by train, you know. It's not like you're on the other side of the world. Just come home for one night!" Rose pleaded. Django paused in his shuffling and sighed softly.

"Rose.."

"Oh my god. You can be in a room with Papa for one holiday without going crazy, can't you? For the _family_?" Rose then immediately adopted her tiniest, sweetest little girl voice that was completely misleading because she was, in fact, manipulative and heartless (in Django's humble opinion).

"Pleaseeeeeeeeee? For me and Mama?"

Grey eyes lifted up to the little rolling calendar on his desk. He fingered one of the pages, lifting it up and glancing at the dates. "I guess I could come home for one day," he said finally, earning a happy squeal from his youngest sibling.

"Excellent! I already bought you something for Hanukkah, too! Well, I made it. Don't ask Mama about it, though. She taught me how to cross-stitch and I've been using it to make pictures with swear words."

Django stifled a chuckle in his palm. "Wonderful."

"I know. I'm getting pretty good, if I do say so myself!" Rose laughed. It made Django's heart ache a little to hear it. It was so much easier to stay away when he didn't have reminders like his little sister's smile. "Anyway, I'll let Mama know. So you better mean what you say! You promise?"

"I promise," he told her, letting his arm drop onto his desk in exasperation. "Good bye." Rose giggled. "Bye! See you soon!" Django hung up the phone and dragged both hands down his face. "Damn it," he muttered.

* * *

><p>"<em>Django!<em>"

The first thing he saw upon arriving at his childhood home was his mother, all tiny limbs and bare feet, racing off the front porch to greet him in the snow. Django couldn't help the grin that spread over his face at the sight of her.

"Hi Mama," he said warmly, dropping his bags and snatching her up into a deep embrace. When he dropped her back to the ground, he realized she wasn't wearing shoes. "What are you _doing?" _he exclaimed in disbelief, immediately picking her back up out of the snow again. He abandoned his bags so he could carry her to the front porch and set her on the steps.

"Oh, I saw you coming and forgot," Kitty Maximoff grinned. "I'm just so excited to see you!"

Django immediately felt guilt pour over him at her genuine enthusiasm. It was no wonder she was excited. He hadn't been home in a over a year. Django smiled sheepishly. "I'm excited, too."

He jogged back over the yard to grab his bags, but he and his mother had barely stepped inside the wide foyer before someone wrapped him up in a bone-crushing hug.

"There you are!" a voice boomed. Django cringed, nearly falling over when he was dropped to his feet again. When he saw the face of his younger brother, though, his annoyance melted away and he laughed.

"Michael," he said in greeting, extending a hand. The other young man grinned boyishly and snatched Django's hand in a firm shake. The elder of the two had to wiggle his fingers afterwards. "Here, I'll help you." Michael grabbed up the bags and moved them out of the hallway, nearly hitting his head as he did so.

Django was two years older than Michael, but everyone thought he was the younger of the two. Django and their youngest brother Peter were built more or less like their father, with lean bodies and barely above average height. Michael, for whatever reason, was well over six feet tall and built like a lumberjack.

Though that might have been because _lumberjack _had been his professional title for years.

He'd been working in it since he was a teenager, Django remembered. Now, he was the head of a local division of timber sales and doing quite well. Shocked the hell out of Django, to be sure.

"Django, it's so good to see you!" A young woman rounded the corner and extended her arms in a hug, but Django balked when he saw her. "Mary?" he questioned, raising a brow. The young woman flushed and patted her protruding belly. "I know!" she exclaimed. "Surprise!"

Michael returned and laughed, slinging an arm around his pregnant wife. "Thought we'd let you find out the old fashioned way." He kissed her cheek, making her flush rosy. Django raised both brows. "You're going to be an uncle!"

"That's.. wow," Django said, but he was saved from the effort of replying in depth by the appearance of a silver-haired teen next to him. "Dinner's ready." Michael groaned. "Thank God, I am starving. Let's go, lady love." Mary giggled, like she'd done all the years Django had known her, so infatuated with Michael as she was. The two hurried into the dining room, chatting amicably.

Django raised a brow at his youngest brother.

"I know," Peter grinned. "Weird, right?"

If anyone knew _weird_, Django thought as they headed into the dining room, it was Peter. The youngest of the three boys, he looked more like Pietro Maximoff than any of them, but they had very few similarities past that. Kitty often said that Peter "marched to the beat of his own drum," but Django suspected that his brother didn't even know other people had drums.

Django stepped into the dining room and let the smell of home cooking wash over him.

"You came!" A fourteen year old girl slammed into him with all the force of a wrecking ball. Tiny Rose Maximoff grinned up at him, her arms wrapped around his neck. "Whoa," Django said, extracting her from his torso. He eyed her critically. She'd grown a lot in the last year.

"You look more like Mama every time I see you," he said honestly. Some part of him hurt a little to say that. Rose was fourteen now. She'd be a young woman soon and he was missing it all. Maybe he really should be coming home more often.

The "children" all gathered around the table, eagerly taking their seats and preparing their dishes. Django took a seat next to Peter, who was currently arguing with Rose from across the table. Michael was seated with his wife toward the end of the table near Kitty.

Django glanced up at the empty seat at the very end.

For a moment, he listed to everyone chatting and shuffling around him. However, their noise couldn't drown out the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Django," Pietro Maximoff said in greeting as he entered the dining room. Django glanced up and caught just a glimpse of his father's face. He nodded stiffly, looking at his empty plate. None of his siblings shared his morose stare, though. They all called out to Pietro with waves and smiles, including his mother, who stood and kissed his cheek before he settled into his chair.

Fortunately, some of the tension melted away when the family began eating. Django didn't talk much, but, as he often did, he took this time to evaluate his understanding of the people around him. Michael and Mary laughed often, sometimes talking about their upcoming birth ("If it's a boy, I'm gonna teach it how to use an ax," said Michael confidently. "It's a good thing to know.") and other times just sharing stories. A lot of people - including Django - liked to give Michael a hard time, but the truth of the matter was that Django envied his brother.

Michael was the most easy going person he knew. He was happy in his job, his marriage and his surroundings. His goals were simple and didn't extend out of their little Polish village, but he worked hard and had a partner who had adored him since they were both sixteen. Even though he was a mutant just like Django, his life wasn't complicated by it. Mary had known since they were children together in school. It had hardly caused him issue.

And now, as an adult, he had a child on the way and a sort of personal security that Django felt he would never know.

".. yeah, been there, done that. It takes a long time to grow back a whole hand."

Django's thoughtful observations were disrupted by his youngest brother's odd conversation. He smirked a little. Peter's mutant ability had manifested itself in the ability of regeneration.

It was the most unnerving thing Django had ever seen. Peter thought it was fantastic.

"You know, I've always meant to ask," said Michael's wife as she leaned forward. "Peter, how on earth did you discover you could _re-grow limbs_?"

Peter pursed his lips. "Uhhh."

_"Are you guys sure this is going to shoot me into space?" young Peter asked, looking skeptical as Michael finished an entire roll of duct-tape on his arm. _

_"Well, duh!" snapped Django at his younger brother. "They're called __**bottle rockets**_."

_"Yeah, stupid," Michael added, flicking a match. "What else would they do?"_

"A distinct lack of parental supervision," Peter finished blandly. Down the table, Pietro pointed a fork. "Hey," he said sharply, making everyone turn to look at him.

"We can't watch you idiots all the time."

He ate a bite of food and Kitty rolled her eyes. Rose giggled. "Hey, speaking of idiots. Abram hasn't called me in over a week!" She frowned, picking at her food. "I go through the trouble of introducing him to Mama and Papa and now he's forgotten all about me!"

"That's strange," said Kitty, raising an eyebrow.

Across the table, Michael leaned over to his two brothers with a grin. "Yeah, total mystery," he muttered, pointing down the table at their father, who was currently fiddling with his napkin and fighting to look inconspicuous. The three boys snickered.

"So Django," said Mary from her spot at the table. "How's the newspaper? Are you working on anything exciting?"

Django cringed at being addressed directly, but it was inevitable. He straightened a little in his seat and managed a small smile. "Uh, no, not really. Just the same old stuff." He put his napkin in his plate. "My editor keeps saying I need to come up with new stories, but I'm not really sure what he wants."

His father's voice made the table go quiet.

"I've got a story you can write on," he said, his tone too casual for Django's liking. The two men slowly met gazes across the long table.

"Your mother and I are taking our findings on the genetics research and presenting it to the American Congress next week. If everything goes according to plan, we'll be kickstarting the North American Mutant Rights Campaign in less than a year." Pietro Maximoff settled his chin on laced fingers. "Once we have our affairs settled with the government, we'll be able to finally go public."

All conversation around the dinner table ceased. Pietro and Django Maximoff stared each other down from opposite ends of the table. Rose drummed her fingers on the table next to her plate.

Django finally spoke.

"I would rather _quit _my job than run that story," he said flatly.

Pietro Maximoff all but snarled at the other end of the table, but he had no time to speak, because Django was already rising from his seat. His mother stood up to protest, but Django waved her off and marched out of the dining room, leaving his family behind.

* * *

><p>Snow poured from the sky. It was dark outside now, so the light twinkling was buffered against a sea of dark blue and black. The covered porch wrapped around the house and Django had taken to one of the wicker seats off to the side, his posture slumped and his eyes glazed as he stared out over the yard.<p>

Nails clicked on the wooden slats of the porch and a furry face appeared at his knee.

"Hey _Pies,"_ Django murmured affectionately, patting the dog's head. He curled his fingers around the canine's greying snout. "You're getting old." The dog huffed and licked his hand before settling in a comfortable curl at his feet.

Django looked out at the dark yard again and was briefly lost in thought.

_"Papa!" _

_The brunette toddler ran over to his father, his face put out. "Michael bit me!" _

_Pietro Maximoff knelt in the snow and smiled. "He's only got two teeth, Django. How much damage could he have done?" The little boy pouted and held out his hand again. "Oh, alright," said his father, taking off the glove and inspecting the little hand. "I think you'll survive." He kissed the two cold little fingertips. "Just throw some dirt on it." __Django looked thoughtful for a moment. Then, with a great flourish, he picked up a handful of snow and dropped it onto his "injured" hand. "There, like that?"_

_Pietro fell back into the snow laughing. "No, not -Oof!" The rest of his words were drowned out by the little boy's laughter as the two rolled around in the snow._

Django's eyes flickered at a hint of movement. A deep green jungle vine twisted up through the floorboards of the porch and curled its way around the railing. He watched with vague interest as it was joined by another vine, this one moving slowly up the beam that led to the porch awning. Eventually, the two moving vines met and formed a face with a grinning mouth.

"Cheer up, Django!" a voice mimicked behind him.

Django leaned back further in his chair and glanced over his shoulder. "That's creepy, Rose." Behind him, his sister made a face and dropped her hands. The vines fell with them. She rounded the corner and plopped down into her brother's lap.

"Yeah, well. I tried."

Django sighed and put his hands behind his head. "I know. I'm sorry," he murmured. Rose frowned and shifted in his lap. "Django, I know Papa can be a little - overzealous, but .. I mean, you had to know he was going to say something."

"Of course I did," Django said quietly. "That's why I didn't want to come." Rose frowned. "Are you really willing to stay away from home just because you don't get along with Papa?"

"It's more than that," Django said, frustrated. "He tries to goad me on purpose!"

"Well, yeah. That's what he does," Rose said with a wave of her arm. "Don't you know him at all? He wants to argue with you because that's like, his favorite thing to do. And to be honest, you're really easy to get at." Django frowned. "Am I?"

Rose nodded. "Yep." She prodded his nose lightly. "Mr. Sensitive."

Django pushed her hand away and scowled. "Whatever. If Mama's upset, you can tell her it's HIS fault. Not mine." Rose sighed dramatically and hopped up. "You tell her, Django. I'm tired of it." She waved her hands again, this time near her head. "I'm done."

She trotted back inside, leaving Django to his thoughts.

* * *

><p>"Hey," said Peter. Django glanced to the side and gave his youngest brother a questioning look. "I wonder if Michael's baby is going to eat rocks like he used to."<p>

Django chuckled and slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He and Peter glanced both ways before crossing the main street of their village. Django was only staying one more (uncomfortable, agonizing) day, but he'd promised his mother he'd go with Peter to the market for her. The two Maximoff boys stopped in front of the only kosher deli in the village.

"Here's the list," Django said, handing a slip of paper to Peter. The teen frowned. "Hey, you're supposed to help me!" Django rolled his eyes. "I'm the eldest. I supervise. You go do the stuff." He pushed his brother in the direction of the door and the teen went inside, grumbling all the while. Django had just turned to lean against a park bench when he heard someone call out his name.

"Django!"

He turned immediately, almost falling over his own feet. A pretty brunette in a yellow coat bounced across the snowy street and onto the sidewalk next to him. Django blinked, unable to match her level of enthusiasm mostly because he could not remember her name to save his life, despite the fact that he was acutely aware they'd gone to school together for years.

"I didn't know you were back in town," the young woman said breathlessly, offering Django a rosy smile. "How are you? I haven't seen you since you left for college."

Django flashed her an uncertain smile and ducked his head a little, clearing his throat. "I know. I just - I haven't been back in town much." He shrugged his shoulders and dropped his eyes to the ground, his hands in his pockets. The girl - Natalya, maybe? - laughed softly and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "I know. Are you moving back?"

He shook his head and made a face. "No, thank God."

The girl's expression flickered and Django quickly realized how he'd sounded. "I mean, I - Well, you know. I really like my new place - You know, that's .. That's all." He cleared his throat again. The poor girl in front of him was still trying to pick up on a conversation, but by now Django was studying light pole with a keen sense of curiosity. His fingers curled in his pockets.

"Well," said the girl again, her tone picking up a chipper lilt. "If you're ever in town and, you know, want someone to hang out - "

"Got your meat!" Peter exclaimed triumphantly. He then proceeded to shove a comically large log of sausage meat into Django's hands and grin. The girl frowned a bit and raised an eyebrow. Django's face flushed scarlet, but Peter looked quite pleased. "Hello Natasza," he greeted with a wave. Django blanched inwardly. So that was her name.

"Hello Peter," she said tentatively, giving Django one last look. "Well, I'd better get going. See you around, Django."

He managed a weak wave with the hand that wasn't holding a foot-long piece of sausage. Then he turned the full force of his glare on his brother, the one grinning like Dr. Seuss character. "Man," said Peter. "I'd rather watch you try to talk to girls than go to the movies _any _day."

* * *

><p>"Pretty easy to tell whose side was whose, huh?"<p>

Django glanced over his shoulder and grinned just a bit. He turned his attention back to the bedroom doorway. "Yeah," he agreed as Michael appeared at his side. The afternoon was sunny and it gave the snow on the windowsill an extra flash of light. Django's train would be leaving in an hour, but he had taken the time for one last thoughtful walk around the house.

The home Dr. Leon had left his parents so many years ago had eight bedrooms, but he and Michael had always shared one. Now, years after they had each moved out, it looked more or less the same. Both sides had a single twin bed and a tall wall of built-in bookshelves, but everything else was distinctive and personal.

Michael's side, which had always been a mess when they were children, was lined with team trophies, framed photographs, sports equipment and various boy things, like cardboard boxes that had once housed outside animals that Kitty had been forced to get rid of. Django's side, on the other hand, was filled with books and composition pads. His bedside table housed a blue lamp and a single framed photograph of him and his siblings. Academic achievements dotted some of the wall space above his small desk.

He'd wanted to take his books with him when he'd moved out, but he didn't have the room in his small apartment. He took a few with him now, though, more out of nostalgia than any desire to read them.

The two young men gazed at the room for a long moment without speaking.

Michael turned to Django. "Hey, that reminds me. Mary's going to be due in a few months. I know you're really busy with work and all," he raked a massive hand through his hair. "But I'd like it if you were there."

Django glanced up at his brother and felt his lips tug at a smile. Again, the feeling that he had been missing too much of his family's lives worried his heart. "I'd like that." Michael smiled, leaning against the doorway with a grunt. "Good," he said, glancing at the room again.

Peter suddenly popped up between them and darted into the room. "What're you guys looking at?"

"Whoa, hey!" Michael shouted. "Off limits!"

"Get out of our room!" Django shouted.

Down below on the first floor, Mary and Kitty glanced up at the sound of a crash followed by a high-pitched shriek. Mary hummed thoughtfully. "What was that?"

Kitty breathed in deeply and waved a hand. "Oh, I'm sure it was nothing."

* * *

><p>"I just don't get it."<p>

Kitty Maximoff nodded patiently at her husband's words, even though she'd heard them a million times. Instead of protesting, however, she simply listened patiently as she pulled a brush through her hair from her place at her vanity.

"I mean, none of the other kids are as damn antagonistic about it as he is. Doesn't he understand that he's supposed to be on our side with this? Doesn't he understand - " Pietro Maximoff paced their bedroom floor. " - how _important _this is?" The silver-haired man sank onto the edge of the bed with a slight bounce. "I never thought I'd have a son who was ashamed to be a mutant."

Kitty stood away from her stand and moved over to her husband.

"Pietro," she said quietly, kneeling in front of him. "You know why he feels this way. He hasn't had an easy time with his powers." She touched his cheek. "Besides, we've had the good fortune to be able to raise our kids in a comfortable, _safe _environment for their entire lives. They've never had to do the things we've done or seen the things we've seen."

She stood, her hair falling over a slim shoulder covered only by a thin nightgown strap. Pietro vaguely reached up and brushed his fingers through the chestnut locks. Kitty caught his hand and curled her fingers around his.

"Django has no idea how important this is because he's never had to struggle like we did. He's never had to fight."

She kissed her husband's fingertips and then stepped away so she could finish getting ready for bed. Pietro let his hand drop, his face shifting into a thoughtful expression. "Yeah," he said quietly. "That's true."

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Edited the chapter and added two scenes!<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Try not to get too bogged down with all the dialogue in this chapter. The pace will pick up soon!

* * *

><p><em>".. really like you, Django."<em>

_"Really? I - I like you, too.." _

_Tunnel vision outlined with blurred edges showed the face of a pretty girl with dark brown hair and big blue eyes. She was smiling at him - him, of all people! She wanted to be there. _

_Everything outside was bright. The other kids had gone away. The two of them sat alone at the riverside. It made Django's heart pound. _

_She was holding his hand. When had she started holding his hand? _

_"You're my favorite boy in the whole school," she admitted to him with a sweet smile. The compliment made him flush wildly and everything in his body felt warm. Her hands were so soft. _

_"Thanks," Django murmured. "I - " _

_The image of girl's face flickered like an aging television. It blinked once, twice, and then erupted in a static that eventually filled out into screams of agony. _

_All at once, the sweet face was flying into a wide rock with a thick, wet crunch. _

_"NO!" Django shouted. _

_The blurred vision widened to her hands, gripped in her blood-soaked hair, as she slammed her face into the unyielding surface over and over again. The sound echoed and drowned out all others. _

_Until it stopped._

* * *

><p>"NO!"<p>

Django bolted upright, his exclamation startling the train riders next to him. He panted, his trembling hands coming up and touching his chest through his coat. Grey eyes darted around the train car before settling back on the seat in front of him.

The cold window he'd been sleeping against was already frosting over again.

Django cleared his throat and turned away from the curious stares. His fingers tightened over his jacket, his expression lowering to the snowy landscape as it rolled by his window. He breathed in deeply and reclined in his seat.

Almost home.

* * *

><p>The week after Django returned to his own home was much like many of the weeks before. He went to work, did his best not to get fired, came home, and spent a great deal of his time reading or writing. Any sort of outside socialization was greatly ignored and the most fruitful conversation he had was with an old lady at the supermarket.<p>

All in all, it was a lonely existence, but it was the type he preferred.

Other people - including his family - were far too complicated. And forget a girlfriend. If he could ever must up the skills to get one (which, according to Peter, would be worth watching), he didn't think anyone would care to deal with him for all that long. To be honest, the very thought of being obligated to socialize with someone in the way that a girlfriend would require sounded exhausting. He was glad not to have to deal with it.

Most of the time.

The front door of his apartment creaked open and Django stepped inside, jingling his keys before successfully getting them out of the lock. The day had been excruciatingly long and he now looked forward to nothing more than barricading himself in his tiny apartment with a drink and a good book.

Stepping across his meager living room and into the dark kitchen (because Django had yet to replace the light fixture and he had only the one table lamp in the living room), he reached in his cabinet and pulled out a small tumbler, which he quickly placed on his lopsided kitchen table. With a quiet sigh, he turned to grab his bottle of whiskey.

However, when he turned to fill his glass, it was gone.

Django stared. His eyebrows furrowed, he looked around his kitchen (which was the size of his mother's closet) and tried to determine where he'd set it. After a moment, he set the bottle of whiskey on the table and turned again.

When he looked back at his table, his whiskey, too, was gone.

Django dropped both hands, a concerted feeling of dread and irritation filling him, particularly when he noted the flutter of his window curtains. Just to make sure, he dropped down to one knee and glanced under the table, but he knew his things weren't there. Sure enough, by the time he straightened, he had already set his expression at its most deadpan because he knew what he'd find.

Pietro Maximoff waved a glass of whiskey at him and then took a sip and then screwed up his face. "Eugh, you always drink whiskey this cheap?"

Django snatched up the bottle of whiskey with a growl and set about fixing himself a glass. "What the hell are you doing here?" Behind him, he heard his father, who had propped up his feet on the kitchen table, make a little 'tutt tutt' noise.

"No way to speak to your father, Django." He finished the glass of whiskey with a grimace and set down the glass. His son ignored him and continued fixing his drink, which he downed in a single gulp. Pietro raised a brow. "Well, I'd ask you to take a seat, but.." He trailed off, looking around and trying to hide his amused smirk. "Why the hell do you only own _one _dining chair?"

Django glared and headed into the living room, whiskey bottle in hand.

The older man jumped up to follow him, dragging the dining chair behind him. When Django fell heavily onto his threadbare couch, Pietro stopped the chair in front of him and fixed himself another glass.

Django raised a brow. "You didn't answer my question. What're you doing here?"

"I needed to talk to you," Pietro said lightly, settling back in his chair with his drink. "It's about something I couldn't talk about back at the house."

Django's brows furrowed. "Really? Because you seemed pretty willing to talk about anything and everything back there." He sipped his drink. Pietro shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. You'll never know, though, unless you shut up and listen."

Django scowled. "So go for it."

For perhaps the first time in his life, Django spotted hesitation in his father's countenance. A devout curiosity piqued as the older man twitched in his chair, eyes flickering briefly. "Django, this is important. So I need you to pay attention." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"Is this... about something that happened before?" Django asked cautiously, his mind searching for the few facts he knew about his parents before his time. "Something that happened in the past?"

To his surprise, his father settled him with something of a twisted smirk, equal parts amused and bitter.

"No, son." Pietro swished around his drink in his glass. "This is about what happened in the future."

* * *

><p>"So let me get this straight," said Django slowly, his words a bit slurred. He held up a finger.<p>

"You're not related to Uncle Leon."

He ticked another finger.

"You're not Polish."

He held up a third.

"And you're... not even from this _timeline_."

Across from him, Pietro tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Well, we're Polish _now, _if that makes you feel any better." Django blinked and stood up abruptly, instantly taking to pacing the living room. "I don't understand."

"What do you not understand?" Pietro asked casually, leaning back in his chair with his empty glass. "I told you. My powers brought us here, we fought some Nazis," he waved his hand dismissively, "- _middle middle middle - _ got married, you were born." He pointed a finger at Django and winked.

Django stopped and stared.

"This is crazy," he said, exasperated. He paused and leaned against the wall next to his bookshelf, falling into silent contemplation for a few moments. "What year did you two leave behind?"

Pietro grunted in thought. "2001."

Django's eyes widened and he turned to glance at his calendar. It was emblazoned with the current year - _1972 _- at the top of a drug store advertisement. "That's impossible," he said dully, dropping back onto the couch. Pietro allowed his son a few moments to grasp his thoughts. He was far less affected by the alcohol than his son (or anyone, for that matter), but finally telling Django this story gave him an exhilarating high.

"I'm so confused," Django murmured, his eyes lowered. Pietro reached for his glass again and moved to pour himself another glass. "I mean," Django continued in disbelief, "were you ever even really in the camps?"

When Pietro's hand froze over his glass, Django instantly regretted his question.

For the first time in many years, he allowed himself a glance at the scars. As a child, long before he knew about The War, he had wondered about his parent's brutal marks. Kitty Maximoff had the worst of them on her legs, awful circular scars that Django later figured out how been the result of chemical burns. She also had a ring of deep scar tissue around her neck, low around her collarbone and thin shoulders like a morbid necklace. Django didn't know what that was from. He'd thought to ask her once, when he was young, but he held his tongue. Michael had asked anyway. Seeing their mother burst into tears and retreat to her room for two days had been enough to silence all further inquiries about their parent's scars.

His father Pietro, on the other hand, took less care to cover his markings than his wife. His entire torso was a blanket of old wounds, with scarcely an inch of unmarred skin to be found. Even his arms, which were currently revealed under the tucked up edges of his collared shirt, were criss-crosses of markings all the way down to his wrists. Dark indentions indicated there had once been a tattoo on his forearm, but the skin was so disfigured that the exact characters were illegible.

"Yes," his father said finally, his tone even and his eyes dark. He finished pouring himself a glass and sat back in his chair. "But not because we were Jewish."

Django's brows furrowed.

"Because we were mutants," Pietro finished. Django sat upright. "Nazis knew about mutants?" he asked, his heart suddenly racing. His father shrugged. "They knew we were different. They didn't know why or how." He reflexively tightened his hold on his glass and gave his son a grim smile. "Didn't stop them from trying to figure it out, though."

The younger of the two lowered his gaze. He felt true sympathy for his father for the first time in recent memory. The dark memory lingered between them for a long moment before Django spoke again.

"So .. why did you stay?" He met his father's gaze. "Everything you two went through was so terrible. Why didn't you return to your time?"

Pietro set down his glass with a _clink _and leaned close.

"Because we were being _exterminated_."

Pietro stood suddenly, his motions becoming a bit more erratic. "In our time, people knew about mutants, but it had been done in the worst possible way." He beckoned at Django. "Media."

The son blanched a little. "We're not ALL that bad," he argued unconvincingly. Pietro waved a hand. "Things were different in 2001. The first time mutants were really exposed, we were on televisions and internet screens everywhere. We were fighting - "

"Why were you fighting?" Django interuppted. Pietro rolled his eyes. "We were always fighting." He tapped his foot. "I was working with my father at the time and your mother - she was with some bald hippie in a wheelchair." Django raised a brow, making a mental note that, as usual, he didn't think his father's descriptions were anything to be depended on.

"Wait, so you and Mama weren't together?"

Pietro paused and grinned. "No, she hated me." He made another dismissive gesture. "In fact, she and I have tried to kill each other before. And I don't mean about what color to paint the dining room. I mean, seriously, we've gone over a cliff together. Twice, actually."

His son blinked, bewildered. "Well, how did you get together then?" Pietro smirked instantly. "Do you really want to know the details?" Django's face flushed. "No," he said flatly. His father continued.

"That's not what's important. What's important is that, at the time, mutants of my generation were clashing over what to do about the non-mutants. Then we got exposed and everything went to hell." He turned to face his son, his expression growing more serious. "Django, in the timeline your mother and I came from, mutants were being exposed and taken from their homes every. single. day."

Django's eyes widened. It was his worst fear realized - people knowing, people judging them, people hating them for being what they were. He knew he hated himself for it. He could not imagine the loathing the population would bestow upon them.

"There were laws that took away our rights, politicians that schemed to have us quarantined, even machines engineered specifically for the _slaughter _of mutants." Pietro crouched in front of his son, his silver eyes glinting. "The day your mother and I left our timeline, our own school tried to lock us away using special security programs specifically designed for mutants. They feared us when we were just children, Django. They tried to imprison us."

He touched Django's shoulder, his grip firm.

"And if they had gotten their way, they would have killed us, too."

He stood and walked away, pausing a moment to gather his thoughts. Django stared at his coffee table, which looked surreal in his unfocused gaze. "So this is why you and Mama do the work you do," he said quietly. "So you can reveal mutants on your terms, with the academic community at your back to protect you against any laws that might come forward in the future."

"Exactly," Pietro said lightly, flicking a finger over the page of Django's wall calendar.

Django rubbed his face, his body suddenly feeling very tired. "So then, why the hell do you need to tell me all this? I mean, I'm not a scientist. You know that. I can't be of any help to you."

Pietro turned to face him again and his face lit up. "Oh, but you can. You see, while I fully believe in the cause your mother and I have invested our years in, I've always been a touch less.. well, _optimistic_." He folded his hands and put them in the pocket of his slacks. "You see, in our timeline, there was a group of men composed of various military and political positions who I know would never, ever accept mutants into society. It wouldn't matter if we told them my powers were to cure cancer, AIDS and the common flu. They'd never buy it."

Pietro raised a brow.

"Which is why I've taken it into my own hands to make certain that they are not a threat."

Django's eyes shifted from his own palms and glanced up at his father's face. "What do you mean?" he asked slowly, to which his father shrugged. "What I mean is that I don't have the tolerance your mother has. And if I believe someone is going to _disappoint _me, I'd rather just not deal with them at all."

Django stood with painstaking effort.

"You killed them."

Pietro shrugged again, his expression impassive. Django growled and fought the urge to break something. "Are you fucking crazy?" he shouted, his eyes flashing. "Those men - Jesus, Papa. They'd be children now!"

"Most of them," Pietro agreed lightly. "That sorry prick Kelly wasn't born yet, though. So I killed his mother." He fluttered his fingers, as if the wind that came off them was tantamount to his guilt. That is to say, virtually nothing.

The younger man scowled and stomped away from the couch. When he turned to face his father again, his shoulders trembled with unbridled anger. "What the _fuck _is wrong with you?" A few quick steps brought him face to face with his unmoving father. "You are a fucking murderer. How the hell can you raise me and teach me the things that you did, when all these years you've been sneaking off to exact your revenge on people who haven't even _DONE anything to you yet_?"

Django wrenched his coffee table off the floor and threw it into the chipped living room wall.

"You are such a fucking hypocrite," he snapped, pointing a finger at Pietro.

All the while, his father stood still and unmoving during the raging. When it finally subsided in a round of angry pants, Pietro spoke quietly and evenly.

"Think whatever you want of me, Django." His words were clipped and short. "As long as you and your siblings are free to think it outside of a concetration camp, I'm happy." He held up both hands, as if to surrender. Some part of Django's anger sputtered and stopped, but he urged it forward out of spite.

Finding no proper words, he grasped for anything that might end the conversation.

"This still doesn't tell me what the hell I have to do with any of this," he growled.

Pietro raised both brows. "Oh, well." He took a seat again and crossed his legs at the knee. "One of the men I set out to destroy was this asshole soldier. A man called William Stryker." He inhaled deeply, as if the ordeal was very inconvenient to him. "I thought I'd killed him several years ago, but as it turned out, there are two William Strykers in his family and I killed the wrong one."

Django tried to ignore Pietro's complete dismissal of the wrongfully killed man in his enemy's place.

"Unfortunately, I didn't realize my mistake until last year. I went and found him, of course, and I took care of the whole business rather quickly. What I _didn't _know, however, was that he had already spawned that creepy ass kid of his." Django leaned tiredly against his couch. "What are you talking about?" he groaned.

Pietro made a face. "Stryker was extremely anti-mutant and, irony being what it is, his kid was born one. I used to feel sorry for this guy. His father locked him up, his powers drove his mother to suicide, yada yada yada. Real sob story." He pointed. "I don't care about any of that. What I do care about is that Stryker already had this weird fucking kid up to no good." He leaned back and sighed. "See, I have these people up in Washington. And everywhere, really, but that's beside the point. Half the American Congress is in my complete and total control."

His son raised a brow. "So now you're not just ruining the timeline, you're - what, controlling the outcome of an entire country's political workings?"

"Hey," Pietro said with an airy wave. "I'm not doing anything no one else is trying to do. It's _normal _political shit, you know. Money. Nepotism. Run of the mill sort of thing, nothing too sordid. That's not important! Pay attention. What's important is that some of MY politicians have turned their backs on me recently and I know it's because Stryker had his little spawn mind-fucking them on the side." He made a face. "That little shit has them gearing up for all this bullshit that will be _very _harmful to what I'm trying to do. The real bitch of it is, I killed William Stryker before knowing about all this, and he was the one controlling the kid. Now, I don't know where the damn kid is and he's still mind-fucking the politicians. Hell, there's no telling what Stryker had him doing to them."

"So," Django said slowly. "You want to.. save them from being controlled?"

"No," Pietro said flatly. "I want them to be in MY control again. Fuck that kid. If I could find him, I'd kill him, but I don't know if that would do something potentially fatal to the people he'd mentally linked to. And besides, he's locked away somewhere and none of my resources have any idea where."

"How unfortunate for you," Django said dryly.

Pietro nodded. "I agree. Which is why - finally, coming to the point - I need you to go to Washington D.C. with me." Django bolted upright. "What? Are you insane? I've never even been to America. Why the hell would I come with you to go to its capitol?"

"Because there's some misdirected little mutant kid controlling people's minds in a very, very important Congress and I need - " he paused here, eying Django carefully. "I need you to use your powers to get him out."

"Fuck off," Django responded immediately, jumping up from his spot. "Damn it, you know I don't use my powers."

"Django, this is important! Don't you think these men deserve to - Hell, I don't know. Fuck up on their _own _volition? Outright mind control is just rude."

Django rolled his eyes. "You just want them to be back in your pocket again."

"So?" Pietro asked, unphased. "All of this is central to the work your mother and I are doing to avoid a future like the one we came from. I'm not hanging out with suits and listening to these dickholes talk about their country clubs because I enjoy it. I need these fools so that I can ensure a safe place for mutants, Django. A better future than the one your mother and I knew."

His son paused, his expression pained.

"I - I can't, Papa. I can't use my powers again. You don't know - "

"Django," Pietro reached up a hand and touched his son's arm. His own scarred skin slipped further out of the cuffed sleeve of his shirt. Django noticed. "I need you to do this for me. Everything we've been hoping for over the last twenty years is finally coming to fruition. But I can't depend on politicians that are being unknowingly manipulated by an out of control telepath." He stepped closer. "All you need to do is get in their minds and push that kid out. You can do it."

Django fell silent, his expression low and uncertain.

"Our family needs this. Please, Django."

* * *

><p>The plane left the next morning.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Sorry this took so long! I have finally finished my grad school applications, so I should be able to update this more regularly from now on. Get ready!

Also, thank you to my reviewers! I am always, always grateful to hear a kind word from anyone who enjoys my stories.

* * *

><p>".. will be landing in New York City in approximately forty-five minutes. Thank you for choosing Delta."<p>

The chipper female voice faded away in a crackle just as Django jerked out of an uncomfortable nap. Sitting up in the plush chair, the first thing he saw was his father, sitting next to him with an unaccountably annoyed expression on his face.

"I hate planes," Pietro said flatly to no one in particular. Django glanced around. They were two of only six passengers in first-class. What the hell was his father complaining about?

"Why?" he asked tiredly, even though he doubted he wanted to know. His father shifted to look at Django, probably so that his sardonic expression wasn't wasted on the seat in front of him. "Because they're slow," Pietro said with an eyeroll. He shifted back into his seat. "And they blow shit up."

Django blinked and then looked forward again. Yep, definitely sorry he asked.

"Did I hear that woman wrong? It sounded like she said we would be landing in New York," Django asked, settling an arm behind his head. Pietro glanced up. "Oh, yes." He smirked. "We are heading to New York. A little side trip, should only take a few days." He cracked open a well-worn book. Django stared. "You couldn't have told me earlier?"

"What difference does it make? You're already on the plane."

Django scowled. This morning, his first thought had been – This is a bad idea. Tell him you're not going. This will inevitably end in disaster. And yet he had packed his things, left his apartment, and boarded a god damn plane with Pietro Maximoff even though he'd regretted every minute since.

And he'd known he would. He'd known it! When would he listen to himself? Christ, he didn't even know how long he'd be gone. He'd be lucky to have a damn job when he got back. Remembering his boss's twitchy mustache and swollen purple face, Django relaxed a little in his plush seat.

Okay, maybe he wouldn't be lucky.

* * *

><p>"Oh my God," Django muttered. No sooner had they stepped out of the cab than the busy street blared to life around them, a confusing amalgamation of shouts and colors. Pietro paid the taxi driver and stepped out onto the sidewalk with all the practice of a man born there.<p>

"Just take our bags to this room number," he said to someone to the side. Django whirled around in his spot, fighting to catalogue all the sights of the bustling city. He'd thought Warsaw was big. This place was everything in one. It was alarming, but he couldn't help the impish grin that spread over his place. He'd only ever seen a city like this on the television. Being there in person made his body jump with anticipation.

"Hey, move out of the road!"

Django jumped off the side of the curb and back onto the sidewalk, blinking in confusion. His father appeared next to him and smirked. "Welcome to New York City," he said with a wave. "Now come on, we gotta get our shit in this hotel. I have some work to do."

"What exactly are we doing here?" Django asked, fighting to keep pace with his father to the elevator. As usual, Pietro had spared no expense. The lobby of the hotel was massive and everything seemed reflective. Uniformed employees bustled by pushing huge carts full of luggage. Men in suits gathered near a fountain. A woman with her hair in a high bun and a perfectly lined lipstick sat behind a desk, rushing to answer phones and help guests. Django almost felt like tagging along with on his father's foot heels. This place was insane.

"I need to check on my laboratory," Pietro said, tapping his foot impatiently as they waited for the elevator to arrive. "You have a lab here, too?" Django asked, perplexed. Pietro rolled his eyes. "I have labs everywhere, son." The door finally opened with a ding. "This one, though. This is my baby. It's the third one your mother and I started, but it's the biggest and best. I've got some minds working in there that will _revolutionize_ the world." He grinned, raising both brows. "Of course, all the basic work is mine. Well, and your mother's. They're all just – " he waved his fingers. " – building on our ideas."

Ding. They stepped off the elevator and quickly made their way to a set of wide double doors, ornate with gold handles. Pietro opened them impatiently, stepping inside as if he owned the room. Django halted in the doorway and almost fell over his own feet.

"Is all of this really necessary?" he asked uncertainly, eyeing the lavish suite. It had a sitting area and a small kitchen, as well as tall doors on either side. Each led to a bedroom, his father told him.

"And no, they are absolutely not necessary. They are exactly what I want them to be," Pietro said, stopping at a table and pouring himself a glass of scotch. He sipped at it, pausing and looking thoughtful. He raised a brow.

"Why are you standing in the hallway like hired help? Jesus, Django."

Django flushed and moved inside, but of course, his father was already moving around the room again. "I told you when you came home that your mother and I were supposed to be presenting our findings this week at a very important scientific symposium. However, I have managed to postpone those findings so that I have more time to … tie up some loose ends." He waved a hand. "I told your mother it's going to happen in six months, but actually, it'll be in two weeks."

Django leaned against a table and folded his arms. "You lied to Mother about something she's been working on for the last twenty-five years?" he asked, irritation edging out his words. God, his father was even worse of a human being than he'd thought before. To Pietro's credit, he did look contrite.

"I did," he admitted, taking another sip of his drink and lowering his eyes. "She'll still get to do her work, Django. It's just that – I have to set up a preliminary sort of environment first. Some groundwork, you know. That's all." He fell quiet for just a moment before draining his drink and pulling on a blazer.

"Well, I'm out. Have a good night."

Django turned so swiftly he fell over a chair. "Out? What the hell are you talking about? We just got here!" To his dismay, his father gave him one of his most amused smirks. "I have to go check out my lab, Django, meet with some people. It's nothing you'd be interested in."

"What am I supposed to do then?" Django sat heavily in one of the fancy chairs. It didn't even look like it would support his weight, but thankfully, it didn't even wobble. Pietro rolled his eyes – one of his favorite expressions, Django noted dryly – and fixed his collar.

"You're a young man in New York City. For the love of God, I'm sure you can find something to do."

His father slipped on his hat and winked at him. And then he was gone.

Just like that.

* * *

><p>"<em>I'm sure you can find something to do,<em>" Django muttered in his best high-pitched imitation of his father. A line of congested traffic honked and raged parallel to the sidewalk he was on, interrupting his childish but wholly justified thoughts. He slipped his hands further into the pockets of his coat and glanced around, his brain once again fighting to take in all the lights, blinking signs, loud music and outraged yells that characterized the downtown New York City area.

Good God, he thought. He was probably going to get mugged.

His first tactic was to try to blend in, but no two people he saw seemed to have anything in common, so he wasn't really sure what the hell to do. He overheard some people speaking Polish and thought to ask them where he should go, but then they'd disappeared into a huge crowd of people and he was afraid if he followed them, he might get swallowed up in one of those huge manholes or whatever the hell they were.

It was too much. The streets were overwhelming and people were all around him.

That was when he spotted it. A pub. Not just a rowdy bar, but a hole-in-the-wall type place with a small wooden sign and mustached man in the window wiping tables and eating peanuts. That was what he needed, if nothing else in the entire world. A fucking drink.

Minutes later, Django stepped the pub – called O'Flannery's – and froze on his spot.

Okay, so maybe this place wasn't the quiet little drink place he'd thought. A group of some fifteen men crowded around a bunch of tables in the corner, shouting and laughing, some of them with one drink in each hand and a full beard wrapped around a cigarette. They seemed to be the working type, dirtied white shirts with no collars or ties, dark pants and big tie-up boots. A few of the men among them wore brighter, more flamboyant tops with wild designs and equally ridiculous hats. One young man in particular was busy chugging a comically large glass of warm amber beer while the others cheered him on.

Django's lips quirked a little. Well, at least these guys were having fun.

And so far, no one had bothered him, so he moved inside and removed his coat. When he turned to hang it on a hook, he found none, so he hovered awkwardly before finally tucking it over his arm. As he glanced at the other patrons and then back at himself in a wall mirror, he realized he was the only man in the entire bar wearing a collared shirt and suspenders. With the growing notion that he let his mother buy his clothes for _far _too long, Django finally settled at the bar with a great sigh.

The bartender grunted in his direction and tossed him a plastic menu. Django tucked his head as much as possible to avoid any further interaction and turned the menu over in his hands, his brows furrowed. He must have been there a while and fallen into deep thought, because the sound of a voice right next to him almost made him fall off his stool.

"You look confused."

"Wha – " Django gripped his seat and looked up. He instantly regretted it. The most beautiful woman he'd ever seen was leaning against the bar right next to him. And smiling.

Django's eyes widened, and for a moment, he fought for words. The young woman – she appeared to be his age, maybe a year or two older – didn't stop smiling, nor did she prompt him to speak. Instead, she leaned casually on a hand propped up by an elbow against the bar.

"I – " Django finally managed to lift the menu and clear his throat. "I do not know many American beers," he managed with a great deal of effort. At his words, the girl's smile grew and made him flush. He could imagine why she might be smiling. At home, Django and his family spoke a bastardization of English and Polish that was nearly unintelligible to an outsider. Everywhere else, he spoke Polish.

Using straightforward English, on the other hand, left him with a heavy accent.

"Well," said the blonde, turning and settling both elbows on the bar. The motion made the figure-hugging sweater dress she wore seem all the more... noticeable. "Maybe I can help." She raised a brow, her lips quirked. She plucked the menu from his hands and glanced briefly over the list. Then her eyes, mischievous if Django had ever seen such a look, lifted to him.

"So… bottle or draft?"

Django sucked in a breath and forced himself to think. Beers. Not pretty girl. Beers.

"Draft," he answered, pleased with how calm his voice sounded. He relaxed just the tiniest fraction.

"Light or dark?" she continued, hiding half of her face behind the menu. Django made a thoughtful noise. "Dark."

"Room-temperature or cold?"

"Cold," Django said. There was no way he was going to try to say 'temperature.' The girl straightened with a grin. "Last one – strong or weak?"

"Strong," Django answered confidently, and he couldn't help but match the woman's easy grin, though he jumped a little when she slammed her hand down on the bar counter. "Jon! Get this man a Guinness!" She settled onto the stool next to Django and crossed her legs at the knee. "Make it two, actually."

"Guinness?" he repeated, glancing at the menu. The woman handed it to him. "Oh, yeah. It's actually an Irish beer, this place gets the stuff by the truckload thanks to fellas like those." She pointed to the wild group in the corner with a snicker. "They're a good lot," she continued, turning in her seat so that she faced the sitting area of the bar. Her foot, wrapped in a short black boot, dipped in time with some music playing behind the bar. She leaned back against the bar and let her hair fall over one shoulder. Django could scarcely blink.

"Seriously, you ever need a pick-me-up, come in here on any given Tuesday. You will certainly be entertained."

Django laughed, glancing in the direction of the men for only a moment before looking at her again just as the bartender settled down two tall pints. They both turned and took long drinks. _Damn. _This was stout. He coughed a little, though it was partly at a laugh at the woman's wily grin. "Come on, now. You said you wanted it strong."

"I like it," he told with a chuckle. "Really. It is what I need today."

"Really?" she asked, tilting her head at him. "And what would be troubling you today, handsome stranger?" She must have liked teasing him because she laughed when he tucked his head with a flush. "Sorry, my roommate tells me I can embarrass people sometimes. I'll try again – What's your name?"

"Django," he said quietly, lifting his head once more. The discomfort at being in a conversation with a woman in a strange bar was slowly melting away, even when she turned her body towards his and their knees brushed. "Django Maximoff."

The woman's eyes lit up. "Ooh, how … " She tapped her chin. "_European_."

Django laughed, taking another swig from his drink. "I'm from _Polski_ – Ah, Poland." To his surprise, the girl seemed genuinely impressed. If only she could see his apartment, he thought wryly. "Wow, that's a ways from New York City. Groovy." She propped her chin up on a curled hand and smiled. "What brings you here?"

"Work with my father," he admitted, leaning towards his beer and risking a glance at her. This time he didn't look away. Something about her relaxed demeanor made him feel less on edge than normal. It was a strangely pleasant feeling. Something of a release, even.

"And what does your father do?" she asked, taking a generous gulp of her drink.

"He's a doctor," Django answered, blanching at the thought. A doctor. Murderer. Madman. General annoyance. "I am not, though. I am a – " he paused, thinking of the right word. " – writer … for a newspaper." Journalist. That was the word. The woman straightened, eyebrows raised. "Really?" She moved out an arm in a lavish motion that made Django laugh.

"That's awesome! Being a reporter is almost like being a detective! You can chase stories and criminals and say – " she tossed down a coaster. " – damn it, boy, tell me the truth! Did you kill that hooker? And then someone else can be all – "

Django almost fell over his chair when she whirled around on her spinning stool.

" – You can't prove it! No one can! And then – BOOM!"

She pointed at Django. "He's wearing a tape recorder under his blazer. Bam, busted! Front page." She leaned back, apparently satisfied. Meanwhile, Django was trying to suppress his laughter. He finally gave in and the woman joined him.

"Um, it is far less exciting than that," he admitted. "But I like your version better."

They both laughed and turned towards their drinks again. "Yeah, well. I'm a waitress, so the most exciting thing I get to do is pitch a 2 for 1 special to a couple of old people at a buffet table," she said with an eyeroll. "But hey, it's money. Even though, you know, I am just _terrible_ at it." Django laughed again, though he bit his lip in an effort not to.

"I'm sure you are not."

"I am!" she exclaimed, scrunching up her face. "It's just – I don't care about people. You know, they try to tell me their reasoning behind their food purchases, like. Oh, I'll be getting the salad because you know I've already lost six pounds or – Hey, I'm a vegan! Do you have any vegan pork ribs?" She dropped her face into a deadpan expression that made Django collapse into laughter again.

"People are just dumb and I can't handle it," she finished blithely. Django opened his mouth to reply, but a crash sounded behind them and the men all shouted in glee. "Looks like yer' number's up, lad!" one of them shouted to a young man who had, at one time, been dressed as nicely as Django. Now he was missing his tie and his pants were ripped, and he'd maybe even had a nice jacket at one time, but it was now collecting spilled beer on the floor.

The blonde woman swung her head over to one shoulder in Django's direction.

"Well, that's my cue." She grinned and downed the rest of her drink before slamming it back on the counter with a satisfied grin. "These boys, Django. They just can't hold their drink."

With that, she hopped up from her seat and went over to the young man currently shouting terms of endearment to the other bar patrons while waving an empty glass. Django raised a brow. He'd never seen someone so drunk in his life.

To his surprise, the woman from his side moved over and helped the drunk man up by putting his arm over her shoulder. "Ooh, there you are!" he slurred to her, grinning wildly. "You are – you are the absolute best."

"I know," she said with a smirk. Django carefully turned his head away. She'd had a boyfriend in there the whole time? And he'd been drinking with a bunch of hooligans in the corner while she sat with Django at the bar. America was odd.

"Good-byeeeeeeeeeee everyone!" the man shouted with a wave, almost dragging the woman to the floor with him. She just laughed, though, and helped him towards the door. "See ya Django," she said, giving him one more smile over the drunk man's back. Django waved just a bit and then, before he lost his nerve, he jumped up and jogged a few steps to the door.

"Wait!" he called, making the woman pause. Django swallowed. "I – I did not hear your name."

The woman laughed and readjusted the weight of the drunk on her shoulder. Then she flipped her head to the side and her eyes twinkled. Django felt a strange flutter in his chest.

"Raven," she answered with a grin.

She disappeared out of the door and was gone.

* * *

><p>"Good morning, Dr. Maximoff!"<p>

"Oh, hello again, Dr. Maximoff!"

"How wonderful to see you again, Dr. Maximoff!"

If Django had to hear or see one more startled, overly impressed lab employee greet his father in the next five minutes, he might hit something. He wasn't even an aggressive person. Being around his father made him this way, Django mused.

There was also the fact that the 20-floor building his father (apparently) owned was full to brimming of scientists, lab assistants, patients, donors, investors, and God only knew what else. And everyone seemed to know his father's face, even though he knew he could not possibly be here more than two or three times a year.

"Here we are," Pietro said, stopping in front of a pair of locked doors. He swiped a keycard and entered swiftly, leaving Django to trail behind him. Everything around them was chrome, reflective and new and altogether too sterile looking for Django's taste. It was meticulous down to the crisp white uniforms and the block-letter signs, most of which said things about 'testing level B' and 'Radiology Floor.' Pietro moved through it all without stopping, though he often nodded to people as they passed.

"Do I really have to be here?" Django asked, not for the first time. He knew he sounded like he was twelve, but damn. He had zero interest in science, medicine, or anything that involved having to scrub down and stare at teeny tiny things under a microscope for hours on end. It made his eyes cross to think about doing that for a living.

"Yes," his father said crisply. "It's important that you see this. Lots of exciting things going on in here, Django. This – " Pietro gestured grandly, in a somewhat overzealous fashion, in Django's opinion. " – is the precipice of mutant advancement."

He raised a hand and then waved a flat palm. "Or a place to cultivate low-level vaccines. It depends on who you're asking." He pointed at Django. "You know what? Just don't ask. Or mention anything to anyone. Pretend like you're blind and deaf, like that little girl from the play that died. Wait, did she die?"

Django stared. "I have no idea what you're talking ab – "

"Ah-ha!" Pietro moved into a wide-open room, pushing back the doors and leading Django into a massive white laboratory. Men and women in suits filed around, working at stations, reading charts and transporting specimens. Pietro stopped at one table and picked up a small tube of clear liquid.

"See this, Django?"

The younger man raised a brow.

"In – Oh, about thirty years, that sorry bastard at Worthington Industries is going to market what he calls a mutant cure." He dangled the vial and then immediately set it down. "Don't get excited, Django, it doesn't work."

Django's face fell.

"I mean, it does, but only for a little while. That's not what's important! What's important is that THIS is the base for that serum. Worthington uses a little mutant boy for his, but it won't matter. Want to know why?" Django folded his arms. There was no reason for him to respond. Pietro was going to continue anyway.

"Because!" Pietro exclaimed. " - I made it first! I mean, sure." He leaned against the table languidly. "I could go and kill him." Django rolled his eyes. "But I mean," Pietro continued. "That's exhausting, and who has time for all that? So I figured the next best thing to fuck up your day BESIDES death is – you guessed it – the government." Pietro pointed. "I have a patent on this stuff now. Worthington's not making shit."

"Congratulations," Django scowled. "Is that all you've been doing here?"

"No. Don't be a smartass."

They moved away from the table and crossed the wide room. It was bustling with activity and Django almost ran over a small nurse. "Everything in this room," Pietro said over his shoulder, " – is a project with mutants in mind, even though most of the people here don't know it." Pietro stopped at another table, this one covered in various instruments and beakers.

"This is the biggest genetics research lab in the country, Django." Pietro smiled this time, something of a genuine look of pride taking over his usually snarky expression. Django stopped next to his father and glanced over the expansive room. "We're doing the very best here," Pietro said quietly.

For a moment, they stood in silence. Then it was broken by an awkward shuffling sound to the side. Pietro turned.

"Hank! There you are."

Django turned, his expression immediately tensing into the face of someone trying not to laugh. A young man, even younger than him perhaps, stood in front of them wearing a white lab-coat and one of the most ungainly stances he had ever seen on a man. Everything about him seemed … odd, even the strange quirk of his mouth that Django supposed might have been a smile.

He suddenly felt a lot better about himself.

"Come here, McCoy." Pietro looped an arm around the young man's shoulders and dragged him over to Django. "Django, this is Hank McCoy. Brilliant young mind I managed to grab for my laboratory just last year." The young scientist guffawed just a little to himself and pulled the lab goggled off his unruly brunette hair. "Eh, I'm not that great," he muttered sheepishly.

"Nonsense," Pietro said gallantly. "Dr. McCoy, this is my oldest son, Django."

Django and McCoy shook hands before he pulled away and slipped his hands back in his pockets. "What've you got to show me today, Hank?" Pietro asked, and suddenly the young scientist became animated and, to Django's amazement, much more confident.

"Oh, it's – really something, here." The young man pulled a microscope in his direction and procured a slide, which he popped into place. "I've managed to – Well, you can see for yourself." He gestured and stepped aside, letting Pietro lean in and take a look through the microscope. Django waited impatiently, wondering, for the millionth time, why in the hell he was here. He glanced up to see the squirmy scientist watching him.

"So," he said with a lopsided smile. "Are you a man of science, too?"

Django shifted on his feet and spoke in English. "Ah, no." He laughed a little and shook his head. "I am a writer." To his dismay, Hank gasped and suddenly looked excited. "Oh, I've always admired writers. I plan on becoming more well-read in classic literature now that I'm done with graduate school." Pietro stopped whatever he was doing and straightened, eyeing Hank with an annoyed expression Django was familiar with. "Don't get me wrong," Hank continued wistfully. "I love science, but I've always had such a deep longing to understand poetry." He laughed again. It was a strange sound. "It's a lot more romantic than, you know, labs and stuff – "

"Hey," Pietro snapped his fingers. "Focus, Hank."

The scientist immediately set back to task. "Oh, sorry, Dr. Maximoff. Anyway, what you're looking at the extracted hormone you told me about. You were right – once I separated it, it was easy to identify and manipulate."

"Good," Django was uneasy with how pleased his father looked. "Exactly what I need. Thank you, Hank."

"Yes, sir."

They left the table and wandered off. "What a strange guy," Django muttered, glancing over his shoulder. To his surprise, his father laughed.

"Don't tell him that," he warned lightly. "He's stronger than he looks."

* * *

><p>"How long are we going to be in New York?" Django asked at breakfast the next morning. His father was ignoring him from behind his newspaper. Django waited a few seconds before prodding it to get his attention. Pietro snapped it down with a Look, which startled the café waitress hovering near their outdoor table.<p>

"What?"

"I asked – How long are we going to be in New York?" Django repeated, matching his father's irritated stare. Pietro raised the newspaper again.

"A few days."

Django scowled softly, his fingers curled around a cup of coffee. On the sidewalk next to them, just beyond the café's gate, people milled about in their usual morning routines. Django leaned back in his chair and tried to sound casual.

"Well, I was just wondering. I thought I might – venture out again tonight, if you don't need me."

He thought his father might be caught up in his newspaper enough not to really hear him, but of course, he could never be so lucky. Pietro dropped the paper just enough to raise an eyebrow at him.

"Really."

"Yeah," Django responded immediately, casting an annoyed glance to the side. "Where to?" Pietro asked, shifting his arm to the side when the waitress dropped off their food. Django shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. "I don't know. Maybe this little bar I went to last night."

Pietro folded the paper and set it aside, his brows furrowed as he sipped his drink. "You're going to the same bar two nights in a row?" He leaned forward. "Are you an alcoholic?" Django cut his eyes at him.

"No."

"Look, son." Pietro leaned back in his chair with a cup of coffee. "There's only two reasons to go the same bar two nights in a row. You're either an alcoholic – " he held up one finger. " – or you're after a girl." He sipped his drink.

Django cleared his throat and looked away. _Oh, God. _

Pietro tossed down his cup and leaned forward with enough force to rock the table. "What the hell? You met a _girl _last night?" Django prayed for the concrete to swallow him whole. God, his father was loud.

"What – No, shut up," he managed, but Pietro was already laughing. "You've got to be fucking kidding me!" Pietro exclaimed. "Twenty-two years as a social recluse and one night in New York has you picking up girls in bars!" His chuckles gave way to full-on laughter at Django's burning expression.

"I didn't pick up a girl, Papa. I just – I – Fuck, forget it."

"No, please!" Pietro managed through his laughter. He sucked in a deep breath. "By all means, please, _go_. Seriously. Here, take my checkbook. Go do something impressive."

Django snatched up his coat with a glare. "I've got money," he muttered, turning to stalk off.

"Since _when?"_ Pietro called after him, but he was already dissolved into a fit of laughter again. "Oh, man." He muttered and wiped away tears. "This was a good morning."

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Pietro lives to give his son a hard time. In case no one has noticed. (:<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Told you guys I would have this going more quickly now that I was done with my applications!** Pressureofausername – **Thank you for your review! It made me smile. I'm glad you're enjoying the work and I appreciate you taking the time to let me know.

To all others, if you have even a moment of time, please let me know if you are reading/enjoying this story (or its predecessor). It would mean a great deal to me.

Onward!

* * *

><p>Thanks be to God, Pietro left him alone for the rest of the day. In fact, by the time Django left the hotel room and strolled onto the streets of the city, he hadn't seen his father for several hours. All the better, Django thought. There was no telling what shitstorm that man was getting himself into.<p>

Stepping across the street and feeling a little more comfortable with the bustle of his environment, Django easily located O'Flannery's and ducked inside. This time, he had opted out of his jacket and suspenders and donned a simple blue button-up and slacks instead. A lot of men here wore denim, he noticed, but he didn't own a single pair. He wondered if he should buy some. They looked uncomfortable. He also wasn't sure of his size. Damn Kitty Maximoff.

His insides were jumping with anticipation, but Django had steeled himself to remain calm and aloof on the outside. He wasn't sure if the girl, Raven, would even be there. He'd just come in, have a casual drink, and look not at all desperate. Yes. That was it.

So when he entered the bar and didn't see the beautiful face from last night, he fought with himself not to be disappointed. Some of the men from the night before were there again, sitting on top of some tables and singing loudly and off-key. A few other figures dotted the bar stools, but no one he recognized.

"Excuse me!" A girl with jet black hair brushed rudely past him and dove into the ladies bathroom. Django made a face at her retreating back and then rolled his eyes. Well, hell. He might as well have a drink now.

Django sat down in the same spot as yesterday, resigned and unaccountably disappointed. He was an idiot for thinking she might come back here tonight to talk to him again. Eugh. His father would be laughing his ass off right –

"Django!"

A smiling face dropped down next to him, completely unaware of the mini-heart attack Django was currently fighting through. His face split into an earnest smile.

"Raven," he said, swallowing the weird squeak that threatened to jump out of his throat. He couldn't help but let his eyes scan her as she sat down next to him, her legs wrapped in sheer black hose and tucked coyly at the knee. God, she was beautiful. And that smile.

"I was hoping you'd show up," she said with a smooth laugh. Django raised both brows. "Really? I – Well, you know. I thought – I liked this place." He gestured to the dingy bar. "So I thought I would… return." He blinked. What was wrong with his _mouth_? Good God_. _Even that McCoy kid could do better than him right now. Fortunately, Raven didn't seem to mind his blush or stammer. She brushed his leg lightly with her boot. "Drinks?" she asked, with all the confidence in the world.

"God, yes," Django muttered, turning away immediately and ordering them two tall drinks. After they'd been sipping a moment, Django relaxed just a bit. "I did not see you when I came in," he noted, but Raven just waved her hand. "I was in the bathroom."

"Ah," he said, glancing up at a roar of laughter in the back. Raven glanced back at the men in the corner and then turned a quick, mischievous glance to Django. "You know what? Finish that beer. Now." Django stared at her. "But – I just got it."

"Exactly. We are about to shotgun the hell out of these beers." She picked hers up and jumped out of her seat, raising it to her face. "Ready?" And if he wasn't, he sure was when she wrapped her fingers low in the front of his shirt and tugged him out of his seat. Django's eyes widened. "Then what will we do?" He asked, laughing a little. This was insane.

"Why dear Django," Raven raised her glass. "We will get another, of course!" With one more tug, she pulled him into the tight space between the stools so that their bodies were pressed together. She winked at him.

"Ready? Set. Go!"

* * *

><p>Silence. Anticipation. And then –<p>

"FUCK YEAH, EIGHT POINTS, BITCHES!"

A roar of approving laughter and shouts shook the tiny bar, but no voice was louder than Raven's. She stumbled away from the center of the sticky floor and nearly fell over a stool. "Look out, lass, you'll be on your ass!" someone shouted from the back and everyone broke into laughter again. Django barely caught her before she hit the floor. "Ah! You are making me – my drink – Ah, God!" Hysterical laughter consumed Django Maximoff, even as he fought to keep himself standing.

"No! You – You have to – Oh, God. Okay, focus –" Raven slurred, pushing away from the crowd of men who had gathered around the dartboard. It was a three hour game of darts that had turned into a drinking game that had turned into a wild bet that had turned into a bunch of ravenously drunk people barely keeping standing, much less hitting a little square board with increasingly dangerous darts.

"It's your turn, Django!" she managed, shoving him into the crowd. Lucky the Lefty, a man with a great red beard who had proclaimed DJango was his long-lost son, heaved him into a standing position with a boisterous shout.

"You've got to do it, boy! You've got to win it for you and your lass!"

"Yeah, do it, Maximoff!" Seamus hollered from the top of table 10. "Do it for your WOMAN, man!"

Raven stumbled into him again – when had she learned to fly, Django wondered – and gripped his chest. "This is – This ish – This ish so important, Django – " Raven "whispered" to him, making Django laugh more and stumble onto a chair. "Okay, Okay, I got it, I – pr – pr – What is the word – English is stupid," he blinked at her, then laughed again and pushed her into the seat of the chair. "Stay," he told her firmly, touching a finger to her nose. She grinned up at him. "You can – You can do it, I – I love you, man!" she told him with an outrageous giggle. Hoots and hollers followed, but Django waved them off with an uncoordinated wave of his arm. "Shut up – Every one – I need – concentrate."

He pointed at the dartboard.

"You are mine, dartboard!"

"DO IT!"

"OWN THAT SHIT, MAXIMOFF!"

Django lined up his shot. What the fuck. When had they gotten three more boards? Oh, God. His hand trembled. "I – Where'd the board go – Oh, it's here. Okay. I got it." He waved a reassuring hand. "I got it."

He took aim again. Silence fell.

"You need SIXTY points," Raven whispered loudly from the side. "I mean – six. Not sixty." She giggled and a snort escaped her. Django took in a deep breath. He zero'd in. He released.

"HOLY FUCKING SHIT, MATES!"

"HE GOT A FUCKING SIX!"

The yells were deafening, the cheers were exalting, and Django could have won a million dollars and not felt better or more exhilarating than he did in that exact moment. "Drinks!" Lefty shouted. "Everyone gets drinks! You – and you and you and you –"

"We won!" Raven shouted, jumping into Django's arms with a manic laugh. "Whoo! I feel like – I am an Olympic medal. I mean, I won – " Django fell over into the chair with Raven, laughing hysterically. "I feel like I won," he finished finally. "You did win," Raven grinned at him.

Fifteen minutes later, the two of them stumbled out of the door in a tumbling run of laughter and uncoordinated hops. "Watch the road!" Django exclaimed, pulling her away with a whoop and moving them down the sidewalk. It had to be one in the morning, but the street was still alight from lampposts and cars. "This place ish – so bright," Django muttered, one arm around Raven's waist. It was supporting most of her weight, because she was less walking next to him and more hobbling.

"I know!" she exclaimed. "It's like – the sun out here. All the time."

"That's what I was – I was thinking the same thing."

"Whoa – " Raven fell onto her knees. Some people on the sidewalk rolled their eyes and walked around her. Django stooped next to her and wrapped his arms around her, heaving her up into a standing position again and holding her against him. She smiled at him breathlessly.

"Thanks," she murmured, reaching up a hand and clumsily ruffling his hair. Django swallowed and shifted her in his arms, his chest heaving. "_Dziękuję__," _he replied. Raven blinked slowly. "What?"

"Ah – I – You are… welcome," he managed finally, screwing up his face in thought. Raven snickered and let her face fall against his shoulder. "Was that – Poland speak?" she asked, making Django laugh breathlessly as he leaned against a park bench, fighting to hold them both upright.

"I think – I think so."

"We should – get off the street," Raven muttered. Django nodded. "Yeah – I – my hotel is not far," he whispered, because he wasn't sure who could hear them and he might – what, get in trouble? He couldn't remember. Raven slapped at his chest lightly.

"Stop trying to – get me into your bed, bad Django!"

"I wasn't! I was – I was not, I swear. I just. It is close." He fought to clear his vision, but it was true that he could think of no other option, so they meandered in that direction for about five minutes before they both tripped over each other.

"Floor," was the last thing Django heard before they collapsed completely.

* * *

><p>"I think I'm going to plant a new tree in the yard," said Kitty Maximoff. Pietro propped his feet up on the expensive table in his suite. "What a Jew thing to do. What kind of tree?"<p>

"A pear tree."

"Why the hell would you do that? I'm allergic to pears."

"So? I'm not. Not everything is about you, Pietro," said his wife. He could hear the grin in her voice through the telephone balanced on his shoulder. "I beg to differ," he smirked. It melted away when someone knocked at his door. "Eugh, there's someone at the door. I have to go – don't forget to tell Peter what I said about keeping that weird shit in his room. I will take his damn door off the hinges if I find one more papier-mâché hybrid animal sculpture in there."

"Aw, let him be creative, Pietro!"

"That's not creative, it's creepy. You let him read too many comic books. He's going to start coming home with severed animal heads in his backpack or something." The knocking grew more incessant. "I have to go – I love you, bye."

When Pietro crossed the room and opened his door, however, he wished he'd hadn't hung up with Kitty.

This was just too good not to share.

* * *

><p>"Oh, Good Lord." The young man who'd answered the knocks at his front door dragged a hand down his face.<p>

"This belong to you?" Pietro asked, shifting the lax body of a young blonde woman in his arms.

"I – I'm sorry, please enter." The young man stepped aside and let Pietro step inside the first floor townhouse. He closed the door behind them with a click and quickly took the girl from Pietro's arms. The motion made her stir.

"There you are!" she slurred, grinning up at him. "I made it home!"

"I can see that," the Englishman said with an eye-roll. He must have seen something in her face that made him nervous, however, because he held up a hand for Pietro to wait and then rushed the girl beyond the living room and down the hallway. She had started singing Happy Birthday at same point, but it was quickly drowned out by the closing of an unseen door. Pietro raised a brow and took a moment to glance around the living area. It had simple furniture and wall to wall bookshelves, all lined to the brim with novels and textbooks. Not bad, Pietro thought.

The young man re-entered, his cheeks flushed.

"I'm – I'm so sorry for your trouble," he said immediately, moving back to where Pietro stood near the front door, his hands in his pockets. "Thank you for bringing her home. Where – Ah, where did you find her, exactly?"

"Face-down on a sidewalk right next to my semi-conscious son," Pietro said mildly.

The Englishman stared. "Your son?" he repeated, his brows furrowed. "And he is…?"

"Oh," Pietro pointed. "He's outside on the front porch."

The man blinked and then leaned forward, peering out of the corner of his window. A young man sat slumped against the corner of his small stoop, mouth gaping open and his limp leg hanging in the brackets of a thorny bush.

He raised a brow at Pietro.

"He'll be fine," said the older man dismissively. The Englishman nodded and straightened, giving Pietro another small smile. "Well, again. I appreciate your assistance very much, Mr…?"

"Maximoff," Pietro stuck out a hand. "Pietro Maximoff."

The Englishman shook his hand slowly, his eyes widening with sudden clarity. "You mean – _Dr_. Pietro Maximoff?" Pietro smirked and nodded, slipping his hands back into his pockets. "That's me." The younger man laughed, his face lighting up. "Oh my Lord, that's – Wow, that's truly marvelous. I – I'm a huge admirer of your work, Dr. Maximoff! And your wife, Dr. Katherine? I follow her work so closely, in fact I – " the young man dashed around the room, pulling a few books off shelves. Pietro watched with silent amusement.

"I wrote my thesis on her work with chromosomal inversions with the research from '69!" The man flipped open the book. "It was published just this year, along with some other experiments in genetics." Pietro's lips quirked at his excitement, though he accepted the book the younger man offered and glanced at the title.

"I'm sorry," the younger man said suddenly, his cheeks flushing red. "You – You wouldn't be interested in my schoolwork." He raked a hand through his hair. Pietro chuckled a bit. "Actually, I think it's great. Kitty and I are always glad to have people interested in our ideas. Who knows? You've probably got things in here we never even thought of." He raised the book. "What page is your stuff on?"

His enthusiasm renewed, the Englishman quickly found the title page of his article and handed it back to Pietro. He glanced over the title – something long and more in Kitty's area of expertise – before dropping to the bottom. He read aloud.

"Research conducted and catalogued by … " Pietro's voice dropped, his lips parted for just a moment before he continued.

"Charles Xavier."

Silver eyes slowly lifted from the page to the face of the young man in front of him. "Oh, yes. I'm sorry. I should have introduced myself earlier." He pressed his hands into his hips, bouncing slightly on his heels. "I'm Charles." He smiled.

Pietro straightened slowly, his fingers curling over the book's spine and closing it softly. He returned the smile with increasing enthusiasm.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," he said with a growing glint in his eyes. After a moment's pause, he waved the book lightly. "This looks like good stuff, Charles. I'd love to hear more about it." The brunette man blinked and then flushed with pleasure. "Really?"

"Oh, yes." Pietro said. "In fact, I won't take no for an answer. How about you come by my lab tomorrow? Maybe around nine." He pointed in the direction of the hallway with the book. "Feel free to bring her along. She can keep my son company."

"Certainly!" Charles said excitedly. "That would be a great honor. We'll be there." He accepted the book back from the silver-haired man, who once again appraised him with a growing sense of accomplishment.

"Good," he said simply, giving him one more smile before dropping a business card into the other's hand. "We'll see you then."

* * *

><p>God. Damn it.<p>

"Why is everything in here so bright?" Django groaned, trying to shield his eyes and navigate his father's ridiculously over lit laboratory. He stumbled into a table and had to side-track. His head was pounding.

"Because it's not meant for drunk dumbasses, that's why." Pietro glanced over his shoulder, his lips quirked in an all too pleased smirk. Django glared from between his fingers and spared a glance at a clock on the wall. It was eight-fucking-a.m. "Besides," his father continued, stopping at a desk and sliding a bottle of water his way. "I'm not the one who told you to go out and get shit-faced last night. Don't get me wrong, it worked out. But still. You're an idiot."

He sipped at some coffee and grinned. "There's no telling what stupid things you said to that girl of yours last night."

Django dropped his hand and hoped he'd go blind or have a stroke. Anything to escape this moment of taunts and hangover symptoms. "You did say she got home alright, didn't you?"

"Yep," Pietro said, winking at him. Django frowned. That couldn't be good. He sat down in a chair and prayed for amnesia. His father was right. What the hell was he thinking? He remembered parts of the night being fun, but then he remembered waking up with his face stuck to the concrete, and that had NOT been fun. He drank as much of his water as his stomach would allow. He felt like hell.

"Why am I here?" he groaned, tilting his head back and staring at the tall white ceiling. He could hear lab assistants and other personnel moving around and drifting in and out of hallways, but as far as he could tell, he had no place here, and his father was not being forthcoming with information. So he lounged in the chair and tried not to vomit while Pietro moved between hallways and labs, talking to people and apparently waiting for someone.

Django covered his face with a bare arm. He hadn't even bothered to put on a nice shirt, which would have normally sent his mother into fits. He had thrown on a cotton t-shirt and left it untucked over his slacks. Without even a belt. Like a _hooligan_, Kitty Maximoff would say.

Across the widest room of the lab, where Django sat, voices drifted in from the entrance.

"Why can't I bring it in?" someone complained in a scratchy voice. A man answered in British English. "I already told you, no outside food or drink. That includes your silly overpriced coffee." A thud as something landed in a garbage can and an almost inhumane wail followed.

"I'm going to kill myself, Charles. Right in front of you and all these people!"

The shout made Django drop his arm, but he had scarcely turned in the chair he was sitting in before Pietro Maximoff greeted them first.

"Charles!" He exclaimed, as if the two were old friends. Django stared, at a complete loss, as his father shook hands with the man he'd seen Raven carrying out of the bar the first night they'd met. And standing behind him, with her hair in a mess of a ponytail and overly wide black sunglasses on her face (even though they were indoors), stood the lovely woman that haunted his dreams. Well, for the last two nights anyway.

Django stumbled into a standing position and moved next to Pietro, blinking dazedly as he appeared in front of the two newcomers. Raven gasped.

"What the hell, Charles!" She shrieked, immediately covering her face and ducking behind the other man. He grinned over his shoulder at her. "Raven, you're being rude!"

"I – Oh my God," she muttered from behind him, peeking up at Django and giving him a tiny wave. He responded in kind, equally embarrassed. "I thought you'd be happy!" Charles teased her over his shoulder. "You and Django got on quite well last night."

Django's cheeks flushed. Pietro stood to the side, barely containing his glee at Django's humiliation.

"Yeah, maybe if I had s_howered, _you sorry English asshole!" Raven hissed from behind him. Pietro finally cleared his throat and nodded at Charles. "Well, now that we're all acquainted again. Django, why don't you entertain dear Raven while I show Charles around the lab?"

Without waiting for an answer, Charles and Pietro trotted off, leaving Django and Raven to shuffle awkwardly for a long, dreadful moment of silence. When Django glanced up, Raven still seemed to be glaring heatedly at Charles, who ticked his head at her from a distance as if he could hear her anger. He smirked and turned away with a shrug.

"I – I hope you were alright," Django said finally, wishing he had sunglasses like her. "I am sorry I did not take better care of you last night. I should not have gotten so drunk."

Raven shifted and sighed, finally smiling a little and dropping her arms to fold them over her sweatshirt. "It's okay. I was – Well, okay. I was totally wasted." They both laughed quietly. "I,uh. I had fun, though. I think." She smiled at him. Django's heart lifted a bit. "So did I," he murmured. For just a moment longer, they stood there. Then he gestured.

"Oh my God. Yes." The two of them moved off and found some comfortable seats, where they curled up with their hangover remedies and basked in each other's mutual discomfort.

* * *

><p>"I want to show you something," Pietro said lightly, leading Charles over to a small glass room. They ducked inside and Pietro waved off an assistant. Once they had disappeared out of the door, it was just the two of them. Pietro pointed to a small microscope and then reached in a cabinet, pulling out a box of slides. He picked one carefully and then handed it to Charles.<p>

"Take a look."

The younger man raised a brow, but he turned the scope without question and slid the slide in place. Leaning down, he took a careful moment's look through the lens. When he spoke, his tone was a mixture of amazement and concern.

"What.. What is this?"

"What do you think it is?" Pietro asked with a tilt of his head. He leaned against the table, his arms crossed. Charles straightened and eyed him for a moment. "It's an isolated point mutation. A live one, extracted from.. well, I can't tell where this would come from."

Pietro glanced at the scope and then lifted his eyes to Charles.

"That.. is not just any mutation. That is THE mutation." He paused and scanned Xavier for a long moment, watching the careful clicks of recognition in his eyes. "That sample is from my blood," said Pietro quietly. "And if you were to put my son's blood in there…" he pointed to the glass window, where Django sat on a stool, knee to knee with Raven, talking to her and smiling. "… it would look exactly the same." He straightened, moving to stand next to Charles, who was eyeing him with a careful intensity. "All my children's would." He met Charles's gaze. "Would yours?"

Charles backed away, looking a little wary.

"You've isolated the gene responsible for… the next generation of mutation. The one I was looking at in my thesis, but could never find."

"Exactly." Pietro moved around the table, his fingers gliding over the smooth surface thoughtfully. "You and I are one in the same, Charles. Genetic manifestations of an evolutionary cycle. I knew, when I saw your research, that you'd understand. Not just because you're a man of science, but because this has been your mission nearly all your life. Just like me." Pietro watched the effect of the smooth roll of his words over the younger man, who glanced uncertainly at the microscope.

"Charles," Pietro moved in front of him again. Charles lifted his eyes. "My wife and I have been living with our mutations our entire lives. Our children have them, too. What I've done here, among other things, is find out how and why these mutations exist and exactly what they mean for us in terms of living a fully undisclosed life."

"You mean, you want to … make your mutations known?" Charles asked, raising an eyebrow. The thought had never occurred to him. He glanced out of the window again, no doubt studying Raven. Pietro briefly thought to ask Charles if his roommate was a mutant, too. There was something oddly familiar about her, he knew, but he didn't recognize her face or name.

"There are hundreds of thousands, if not millions of us, on the earth at this very moment." Pietro eyed the other man critically. "Hiding, afraid of their own abilities. Unsure of what to do or where to go. Kitty and I have been manufacturing not only the basis for the scientific explanation for our abilities, but also the counter-moves to anyone who might oppose or threaten us."

"So you're preparing for a war?" Charles asked, his eyes narrowed. Pietro steeled his own gaze. "We're prepared for whatever the others bring for us."

Charles closed his eyes briefly. "I honestly never thought this would be an issue. That there would be others who would – I don't know, need this sort of guidance." He looked back up at Pietro once more. "I don't know that I believe that other, non-mutated humans are ready for this sort of thing. I mean, we have no idea what the mutation does to others. How far it extends. How it's passed down, even."

Pietro raised both brows. "What do you think Kitty and I have been doing all of these years? Making cold and flu medicine?" He gestured towards the lab. "We have all of that and more here in our work, Charles. And your research is one more step in the right direction." He touched the younger man's shoulder with a firm grip. "Join us. Help us get through to the American government to prepare for the reveal of mutants like us."

Charles moved away, his brows furrowed. "You're going to the government with this? That seems like an awful idea."

"We need them to know we mean business, Charles. We're going straight to the top."

"Why not petition your own government, then? You and your wife aren't American citizens. Nor am I, for that matter." He folded his arms. Pietro sighed and rolled his eyes. "The Polish government is still recovering from the war. America, though, is where the _real_ strength is. Whatever they do, everyone else will follow suit. And if they don't? Well," he shrugged. "America will just come over and blow them up until they do."

He pointed at Charles and winked. "Now _that's_ science."

Charles rolled his eyes and glanced at the window, his mind toiling over the overload of information. Pietro gave him a few moment's to think, but his every word, every movement was calculated, even in the background. Charles was watching that girl again, the one Django fancied.

"What we do today, Charles," Pietro said smoothly from the side. " … that's what we will have for them tomorrow." For just the barest moment, Pietro's gaze hardened.

"I won't have anything but the best for my kids. That includes keeping them out of government labs and prison camps. Don't you agree?"

Charles looked up, finally dragging his gaze away from the two young people outside. He fell silent, his eyes ticking over the blank wall in an effort to control his thoughts. Almost ten minutes later, he finally spoke.

"I do," he said softly. "I want them safe."

Pietro's mouth slipped into a tight-lipped smile. "That's what I thought."


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Hey guys! Thanks for the reviews and reads! Don't worry, the actual plot (yes, outside of Pietro and Django's endless banter) is coming. Thanks!

Also, this chapter will include our beloved Pietro reminiscing on some steamy memories. People who read Epoch and wanted more fluffy/smutty action from Pietro/Kitty will definitely enjoy. ;)

* * *

><p><em><strong>Ten Years Ago - June 06, 1962<strong>_

Echoes bounced off the ancient walls in a mockery of a uniform group march. Shadows loomed and jumped over high peaks and dust swirled at every corner.

_Click. Click. Click. Click. _

The man continued on, grey eyes straightforward and unrelenting.

He turned and kept pace, making his way through the darkened corridors with ease. Once at the end of a long hallway, he paused just once and glanced at the entrance he'd just used. It led from outside directly into a tunnel of stone and sand, but now he was dropping down step after step into a cavern. He continued on, allowing himself to lose what little light he'd had by the moon.

Finally, after many solitary steps, he stopped in a room with just a hint of flickering flame in the corner. Before him was a set of great stone pillars, seemingly untouched for quite some time. However, someone stood in front of them now, hands folded behind his back and his spine straight.

"Who are you?" asked the first man, his chin tipped high. The other did not balk. Instead, he tilted his head and, as he spoke, his lips twisted in a strange smile.

"I am... the one you are looking for. More or less," his voice was out of place in the tomb-like room. It had a peculiar airy sort of quality about it.

"I doubt that very much," the first man answered, stepping no closer.

The second man shrugged both shoulders, his posture too twisted to be as casual as he would like to appear. "You are in search of a solution... are you not?"

A moment of silence. "Yes."

The second man gestured with both hands, as if to offer all that lay before them at the feet of his visitor. "Then..." he murmured, his eyes glinting. "I shall grant it to you."

And from seemingly no where, a canister appeared in his hands. The first man stepped forward cautiously, a shuffling noise that jumped off the high ceiling and aged walls. After a moment's pause, he stepped closer and took the long, cool canister into his hands.

"There is only ... one condition," the second man continued, a chuckle interrupting his words like a hiccup. Wind hissed through the room and stirred dirt and sand on the floor. The first man paused.

"And what is that?"

"You must take it to the American capital. It will be most ..._beneficial _there."

The first man turned the canister over in his hand and raised an eyebrow. "I have no position in Washington D.C. as of yet. Are you suggesting I do so?"

"Hmm," the strange man turned and walked in a slow circle, twitching fingers falling to a massive pile of identical stones behind him, each sitting higher upon a square in a structure not unlike a casket. "I think you can leave that to us."

"So he _is _here," the first man stepped forward eagerly. "Let me speak with him - "

"No!" The second man had lapsed into shadows and now only his narrowed gaze was visible. "It is not time. Not yet. Soon." He pointed at the doorway beyond. "Go. Take your solution and be glad for it."

"I don't even know what it is - "

"And you won't, not until I come to find you." The second man reappeared and this time he reached for the canister, turning it over in the other's hand and revealing an unusual lock. His face filled the other's vision, normal in appearance but alien in the way it contorted its expressions.

"_We _will help you into the position of power and influence you desire. And once you are there - and only then - I will reveal to you the exact manner of your solution"

The first man narrowed his eyes but held fast to his canister, taking it back with a nod. The second man relaxed and took a step away. "The time is coming," he said over to his shoulder, his footsteps dropping away with every passing click. "... for the world to be ripe with _war, _once again."

"Yes..." agreed the first man, now alone with his metal contraption. He turned it over in his hand. His head angled in the dark, sharp features lost to shadows. "And this time, it will _mutants _who enjoy the spoils of victory."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Current - 1972<strong>_

Django's fingers curled in his pockets. He watched her from a street corner for a long moment before approaching her, his grey eyes flickering over the way she lingered near a park bench, her hair falling smoothly next to her heart-shaped face. Beyond the sidewalk, people milled through Central Park at different paces. A jogger passed by as Django stood, his fingers twisting, hidden in his pockets.

She looked lovely in a deep red dress and blacks heels, a pair of those oversized sunglasses dangling in her fingertips. The sun would be setting soon but she seemed content to hold them.

"Hello," Django said quietly, finally stepping up to approach her. Raven's face lit up at the sight of him.

"I was afraid you weren't going to show up," she said with a grin. She tucked her glasses away in a bag and stepped over to him, her hands clasped in front of her and her lips curled in a mischievous smile. Django chuckled nervously and raked a hand through his hair.

"I am sorry," he said, stepping closer to her still. He could hardly help it. "I have been here a few moments... I was just watching you." To his surprise, Raven's cheeks flushed. "Really?" she asked, sounding surprised. It was the first hint of self-consciousness he'd ever seen on her, and somehow, it made him relax. He wasn't the only one who was nervous.

To his own great shock, Django moved close enough to touch her cheek with his fingers. "Yes," he said simply, and even in a second language, the meaning of such a simple word was clear. Raven's lips parted before she smiled again, ducking her head close to his chest. "Let's go," she murmured, reaching up to take his hand in hers.

She didn't release it for half an hour, not until they'd been sat at a little restaurant near the park. The evening grew dark around them but Django felt brighter every moment. They ate and spoke and laughed, their conversation a bubble of jokes and stories. When they moved to leave, he offered her his coat and smiled to himself when she let him tuck it over her shoulders. From there they walked back to the park, moving down the walkways and near a stone fountain.

"So you're the oldest of four, right?"

Django nodded, sliding his hands into his pockets as he walked shoulder to shoulder with her. "Must have been pretty exciting growing up," Raven smirked. Django rolled his eyes. "You have no idea," he laughed a bit. "My closest brother, Michael, he and I fought all the time." Django waved a hand. "But we still did everything together anyway. It was like it was a comfort to us."

Raven sat on the edge of the fountain and Django took a seat next to her.

"And the others?" she asked, an earnest smile gracing her features. Django shook his head but his memories were fond. "Peter is the next brother. He is very... odd." Raven giggled. "He is seventeen, now. The youngest is my sister, Rose. She is a demon."

Raven laughed outloud. "A demon?"

"Yes," Django said quickly. "And she is also my favorite."

"You shouldn't pick a favorite sibling, Django!"

"I did not pick her, she just is," he replied honestly, thinking back to his little sister. "I swear, she is always looking for things to be in trouble." He paused and re-phrased that, flushing at Raven's teasing grin. "She is always looking for trouble," he tried again. Raven nodded. "Believe me, I can relate."

"I know," Django said easily. "I think it is why I like you."

The young woman laughed, tucking back a stray piece of hair. "Really? So you do like me, huh? Even sober?"

"Yes," he murmured. His eyes flickered to Raven and for a moment, he was able to gather the bravery he felt he had stolen from her earlier confidence. "I think you are... funny and smart and kind." Now it was Raven's turn to hide her face, though she did turn her body in his direction. Their knees brushed. "And very... very beautiful," Django finished, with one last tremendous effort to stave off the tremors in his voice.

They threatened to increase tenfold when Raven's face suddenly dropped, her expression flickering for just a moment behind a mask of uncertainty.

"What?" Django asked, his brows knitting with concern. Raven waved a hand. "Nothing, I'm just - ignore me, I'm being stupid."

"You know I am being honest with you, don't you?" Django stood and took Raven's hand, drawing her up to stand with him. "I would not say it if I did not think so." He watched, curious, as the normally confident young woman in front of him struggled with something to say. Did she not believe him? Did she think he was just saying what she wanted to hear, that he didn't really think she was all of those wonderful things?

Or was it that she didn't feel the same way and she was simply trying to figure out the best way to tell him?

"Raven," Django touched her face, and for a moment, the shifty uncertainty in her gaze stopped. His thumb swept over her ear and into her hairline, the sensation foreign and exhilarating. She finally turned her gaze back up to his and some part of her face relaxed. Her eyes closed briefly and then re-opened. "I am telling you the truth," said Django in barely more than a whisper.

"I know you are, Django," Raven's voice was uncharacteristically soft. Something of a sad smile ghosted her lips. "I don't think you could tell a lie if you tried." Before Django had time to register Raven's words, she pushed up on her toes and pressed her lips to his.

* * *

><p><em>"Ta-da!"<em>

_Kitty Pryde twirled in a circle and let the billowy sheer material of her beach cover-up wave around her. Wind rolled off the waves next to the shore and tossed her hair in front of her face but it did nothing to hide her grin. It did, however, threaten to steal her floppy hat._

_Pietro grinned from his reclined position on the beach towel, his elbows propping him up. _

_"That hat is ridiculous," he told her, even as Kitty dropped to her knees in front of him and crawled up the length of the towel. "That's not very nice," she told him in a sing-song voice. Then she gripped some sand in her little fingers and peppered his bare stomach with it. Pietro groaned and wiped it off, reaching up in a flash and yanking Kitty down next to him on the increasingly sandy fabric. _

_In the distance, other beach visitors laughed and shouted, splashing into the Baltic sea's waves and then dancing back out to keep from being swept away. Pietro was already swept away, loathe as he was to admit it. _

_He rolled over, covering Kitty's upper torso with his own. _

_"You sure it's okay that we come out here? Doesn't Leon need your help?" _

_Pietro rolled his eyes. "For the millionth time, it's fine. Stop worrying." He brushed a digit over Kitty's cheek and then reached up, taking off her silly hat and letting it fall to the side so he could brush his fingers over her hair. "Besides, I think it's time." _

_"For what?" Kitty asked softly, bringing up a hand and touching his bare collarbone. _

_"For us to really start enjoying things again," he told her, his eyes flickering over her face as he traced a digit down herjaw line. Kitty flushed prettily and bit her lip, giggling when Pietro dropped his head to replace his fingertips with his lips. _

_High cliff walls colored in stripes lined the sandy area around them, sometimes creating pockets of rocky pools that gulped in each new tide. Pietro enjoyed their seclusive spot, just around the bend of some of these towering rocks. Spray from the Baltic Sea occasionally brushed their backs and he felt Kitty dig her toes into the sand when he nipped at her neck. _

_"I thought we came here to swim," she whispered breathlessly, wiggling a little as the silver-haired young man dropped his lips to her stomach. He pushed up the sheer fabric of her cover-up and pressed a kiss just below her bellybutton. It made everything on her tingle pleasantly. _

_"I never said that," he replied, his words muffled by her skin. Kitty laughed and then yanked him up, her lips parted in shock when his lips dared to go too low. _

_"Watch it!" she laughed, making him grin and move up to her face again. He sat upright and pulled her with him so that she settled against his torso. When she slipped her fingers through his hair, he let his face fall forward and his lips moved to her cheek and shoulder again. This time, he moved faster and each kiss was more scorching than the last. Kitty bit her lip again and fought back a little groan. _

_"Pi - Pietro!" she exclaimed, glancing up over his shoulder nervously. All she saw was brown rock and the seeminglynever-ending expanse of ocean. Turning her face to his, she suddenly growled lightly at her boyfriend and pushed at both of his shoulders. _

_"Oof - " Pietro blinked up at Kitty, now straddling him. "What the -" _

_Maybe Lance wasn't such an idiot after all, Pietro thought vaguely as he felt her lips on his, her hands moving down his arms and squeezing every inch of lithe muscle. Her mouth dropped further, her body wiggling down his. For just a moment, her tongue dipped out and curled against the sensitive skin just above the hem of his swimming trunks. _

_"Ah, fuck." Pietro dropped his head back onto the towel, fighting the urge to push up on his hips. Kitty's lips lingered on his torso teasingly. Pietro feared, for a split second, that she had let her attention fall to his scars. God knew he had a thousand of them, mostly from shrapnel, but also from other things. Not that he gave a damn about them but it made Kitty sad. _

_However, for the first time in months, she made no mention or motion towards them. Instead, she gripped his hips with surprising firmness and slid her hands up, fingers spread, the entire length of his torso until she was level with him again. Her eyes locked on his and she rolled her body up so that her hips connected with his in one slow, fluid motion. _

_Pietro grunted and rolled her over again, this time turning them both into the sand before he caught her lips in a searing kiss. God, she could make everything on him feel like the most insanely pleasurable fire, the way she tasted rolling over his tongue doing nothing to alleviate the aching hardness they were both all too aware of. Strong arms wrapped around her little body and pulled her against him, the thin fabric of their suits offering just a tease of friction allied with heat. Kitty's lips parted against his in an open gasp and her fingers clenched at his back. _

_He reached down blindly and gathered the fabric of the flimsy cover-up, but when he moved to pull it over Kitty's head, she arrested the motion with a hand, even as her chest heaved with a pant. "Wait, don't - I - I wasn't planning on taking it off." _

_Pietro raised a brow. "Even to swim?" he murmured. "Why?" _

_Kitty's flushed cheeks took on a darker shade and this time it had nothing to do with lust. Pietro's eyes shifted with understanding. Briefly ignoring his own body's (agonizing) pleas for attention, Pietro drew Kitty into his chest and tucked her head against him. _

_"Your scars mean you're alive, Kitty." Pietro's lips brushed her ear as he spoke. Brown eyes flickered uncertainly. "But, they're just.. so bad.." _

_"They're beautiful."_

_Pietro moved Kitty so he could see her face and then slowly, carefully, he lifted the cover-up away and dropped it to the side. Pietro gave her a rare smile. "Perfect." _

_Kitty let the hands that had jumped in front of her exposed body, now garbed only in a high-waisted red two-piece, finally drop away. Her limbs and face relaxed, particularly when Pietro covered her body with his own again. Something of a relieved sigh escaped her. When she touched Pietro's face tenderly, she returned his smile. _

_"You're only saying that because you want sex," she whispered wryly. _

_Pietro flashed her a quick grin. "Hey, that should be more of a testament to your beauty than anything." He held up a hand to his own chest. "I'm your slave." Kitty laughed and shook her head at him, reaching up to lace both of their hands and then draw them high over her head, so that her torso stretched out pleasantly and her chest arched against him. _

_She curled her bare leg at her waist and used it to pull him closer. The kiss was slow and poignant, each movement leaving Kitty following Pietro's lips in motions so familiar and astounding it ached her chest. _

_"I love you," she whispered, earnest truth, painfully won, now in the place of the teasing playfulness from before. She'd never said it before - not to any man. At that moment, however, there was nothing else left to say. _

_Pietro released her hands and drew his fingers down the pale insides of her arms until he let them fall and linger at her neck. He watched her for a long moment, his digits curled there. Behind him, the steady crash of waves filled the silence. _

_"I love you too, Kitty." _

_He sounded surprised. _

* * *

><p>Pietro jolted awake.<p>

Blinking sleepily, he twisted from his reclined position on the little hotel sofa and glanced at the clock. Deciding he had enough time for a phone call, he hopped up and marched over to the ornate wooden desk that housed the land line for their hotel room. He'd only been asleep for about ten minutes, but damn, what a satisfying memory to visit him in his dreams.

He quickly dialed the number for home and waited impatiently. When a female voice picked up the phone, Pietro immediately leaned forward on the desk with a devilish smirk.

"I had a dirty dream about you," he said into the receiver.

A long pause followed. And then -

"Papa?"

A strangled gasp escaped him and he dragged a hand heavily down his face. He let his face fall forward on the desk with a thunk.

"Please go get your mother," he said dully into the phone.

_Jesus Christ_. Rose didn't even bother replying, instead dropping the phone and practically running away by the sound of her footsteps. A few moments later, the real Kitty Maximoff picked up the other end.

"Hello?" she said, sounding uncertain.

Pietro groaned. "I think I just scarred our daughter for life," he finally picked up his bruised face. "What did you _say_?" Kitty laughed incredulously. "I've never seen her so red!"

"Please don't make me repeat it."

"Oookay," Kitty snickered.

Pietro drew in a great sigh and sat back in the straight-backed desk chair. "_Anyway," _Kitty offered, though from the tone of her voice, she was still grinning. "How's your day going?"

"Up until five minutes ago? Fine."

"And what exactly are you doing in New York again?" his wife asked, her tone curious. "I told you," Pietro said lightly. "Just setting up some stuff for when we come back in a couple of weeks." Kitty made an unconvinced noise. "Right," she said dryly. "And Django is helping by doing...?"

"Uhh. Reporting. That's what he does, right? Ooh - On the note of Django, guess where he is right now?" Pietro pushed a foot against the desk and leaned his chair far back so he could peer out of the hotel window. He pressed back a curtain. "He's on a _date." _

Kitty gasped. "With a _girl?" _

"Flesh and blood," Pietro smirked, teetering his chair on two legs. "I've met her a couple of times, she seems nice. Something kind of weird about her, though."

"Well, don't say anything to Django! I don't want you to make him nervous and mess it up," Kitty said emphatically. "Hey, I've got this under control, okay? This is man stuff." Pietro rolled his eyes and rocked precariously in his chair.

"I tell you what," he peered out of the window again. "I give that boy all the genetic gifts in the world and he just wastes them on a dirty sock at the bottom of the laundry hamper."

"Oh, Pietro."

The silver-haired man let his chair fall back onto four legs. "Besides, if anything, I've helped him along."

"I wonder if it's going well," Kitty mused excitedly.

"It is," Pietro said mildly, glancing out of the window one more time. "How do you know?" she asked curiously.

"Because I was spying on him, of course."

"Pietro!"

"Ooh, here he comes! _Igottagoloveyoubye_." Click. Pietro jumped back into his seat just as the hotel door opened and his Django stepped in, a relaxed smile flitting over his features.

"Django!" Pietro exclaimed, leaning over onto his elbows on the desk. "How was your date?"

"You should know," Django said mildly, shrugging off his coat. "You were spying on me."

"Wha a-a-at? I would never."

Pietro's eldest rolled his eyes and hung up his coat, and for once, his expression didn't immediately shift into bitterness or resentment at the sight of him. How unusually pleasant. Pietro stood and moved around the desk, his eyes catching a glance of the mantle clock again.

"So if it went well, what're you doing back here?" he asked, raising a brow. Django paused and followed his father's gaze to the clock. "Um, because the date is over?" he asked, looking confused. Pietro rolled his eyes.

"It's eight-thirty, son."

"So?"

"So... " Pietro gestured, his expression shifting into disbelief. "Isn't there, I don't know, _anything _else you'd like to be doing after such a great date?" He raised both eyebrows suggestively and finally, Django flushed with understanding.

He scowled, his usually dour expression returning swiftly. "Not everyone does things at the same speed as you, Papa." He grabbed his book off the coffee table and made a face. "You don't have to tell me," Pietro snorted. He leaned against the sofa arm, his lips quirking into a grin. "Though, I do feel like I should tell you - " he fanned his fingers at Django, who paused to stare at him. "I already had your mother locked down when she was only _fifteen_."

Another scowl and Django hurried to his bedroom door.

"Django! Django! Django!"

The younger man huffed and turned one more time to his father, his fingers pausing on his door handle. Pietro Maximoff drew in a deep breath.

"I was _that _good."

The slamming of a door was his only answer and Pietro Maximoff let himself fall into another round of chuckles.

* * *

><p>Django had barely started eating breakfast when his father dropped in front of him and waved a checkbook.<p>

"Eat up, Django. Our plane leaves in an hour."

The younger man bolted upright, his eyes panicked. "An hour? You mean we're leaving New York _today_?"

"Didn't I mention that last night?" Pietro asked casually, inclining in his chair and sipping at his coffee. "Pretty sure I did. Maybe you were too busy sulking to hear me." Django dropped his fork on his plate and sat back in his chair. Images of Raven immediately floated to his mind. He would be leaving in an hour and he hadn't even had a chance to tell her good-bye.

It hit him like a fist.

Pietro watched him for just a moment before leaning forward and dropping his checkbook at Django. "The plane tickets are in there. See that you hold onto them." The younger of the two eyed the book dimly, his movements suddenly lacking the enthusiasm they'd held only moments before. He picked up the checkbook and let ths tickets slide out.

His brows furrowed. He picked them up and separated them in his fingers.

"Why are there four?"

Pietro smirked at him from over his coffee cup. "There are four," he said slowly, knowing he was teasing Django and thoroughly enjoying it. " ... because I - just so happened to need Charles Xavier's help with something in Washington. And apparently your little girlfriend can't be left unsupervised, so there you have it."

"They're _coming with us?" _Django exclaimed, jumping up from his seat. A brilliant grin the likes of which Pietro hadn't seen in years illuminated his face. "Mmhm," Pietro nodded. Then he quickly had to set his coffee aside because his son was suddenly hugging him.

Surprised, Pietro patted his son's shoulder until the younger man let him go.

"Thank you," Django said earnestly. "I mean, I know you're doing this for work, but... " He didn't have to bring Raven, Django knew. The rush of gratitude was unlike anything he'd ever felt towards his father. Pietro's lips perked. "You're welcome, son."

The truth was, Charles Xavier probably wouldn't have come to D.C. without the girl who acted as his sister, but when Pietro saw Django greet her at the airport - she flew into his arms wearing those crazy sunglasses and a dazzling smile - he knew that even if she hadn't been necessary, her company would have been one hundred percent worth it.

* * *

><p><em>"Peace does nothing to test - to INCREASE - mutants' strength. To force them to evolve into the strong."<em>

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Prepare to see some more familiar faces in D.C.! Also, I could barely write the phone-call scene with Pietro without laughing hysterically.<p> 


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